Archive of Our Own

The morning air is light and sweet. The tang of the ocean breeze sweeps underfoot as the earthy smell of autumn leaves begins to take over. Red bricked paths lead away from the docks and into the quiet bustle of town, where sea-worn winds chip away at warm tones of plaster and paint on shiplap buildings. 

Shutters open with the shake of morning dew and carts begin to filter out onto the streets, displays piled high with produce. 

“Jars, vinegar, ,cane sugar, pectin,” the cook declares, counting off the items on his fingers, “the more preservatives I can find the more we can take with us.”

Zoro hums in vague reply, trailing beside the blond with their arms hooked at the elbow. 

“Or maybe I can finally convince Franky to build a second cooler…” 

The corner of Zoro’s mouth quirks up in amusement, “last time you brought it up he said he’d have to cut the hot water to power it.” 

“Shit, ” Sanji curses, “I forgot about that.” 

The swordsman snorts, “just get the best stuff and don’t go overboard. You get pissy when we’re overstocked.” 

“I do not,” Sanji retorts with a scowl, pausing in the middle of a tidy brick street to decide whether they would first try the open air market near the pier or the line of quaint shops along the main street. 

“Last time we had to throw out food you looked so sad Luffy offered to give the damn apples a sea burial,” Zoro points out. 

“Luffy just wanted to set something on fire,” the blond corrects; then muttering under his breath, “and they were plums…” 

Zoro smirks. 

“Shut the fuck up, Marimo. C’mon. Let’s go this way.” 

Sanji leads them towards the main strip of shops, keeping the swordsman tucked at his side. The contact is both beneficial for keeping the directionless moron from wandering off, as well as making Sanji’s heart patter affectionately in his chest.

The Straw Hats had reached port on Barrows at the cusp of dawn. A modest autumn island in the Grand Line; with rich soil and a lack of natural predators, Barrows prided itself on its agriculture. Their produce plump and rich, their livestock fat and happy. Vibrant signs on the pier encouraged visitors towards the markets, advertising beautiful harvests and boasting of sustainable farming practices. 

Sanji had, naturally, been thrilled and had subsequently towed his lover off towards the markets before the sails had been furled. Determined to make the most of his access to a fresh and bountiful find. 

“Which do you like more, Marimo? Yams or sweet potatoes?” Sanji asks, plucking out a fresh cigarette with his free hand. He slips it between his lips before getting his lighter out. 

“Is this a trick question, Curls? Aren’t those the same thing?” 

Sanji sighs, patting Zoro’s arm with placating sympathy, “no, Mossy. No they are not.” 

Zoro shrugs, unperturbed. 

The blond lets his eyes wander as they walk closer to the main square, various wooden and canvas signs detail the recent harvests and he’s pleased to note a variety of crops as well as spices perpetually in season. As they walk, he takes slow, idle breaths of the cigarette. The smoke pleasantly warm in his mouth as they wander through the sharp morning air. 

“That the tangerine ones?” Zoro asks, nodding to the spot of orange ink near the filter of the smoke. 

“Mhm,” Sanji grins. He’d been so excited for the market, he’d even indulged that morning and brought along one of the cigarette packs he’d been storing with leftover tangerine rinds. The cook having been experimenting with various ways to have the tobacco take on new flavors. 

The tangerine pack was definitely one of his favorite results so far, the smoke taking on a delightful citrus tang to its flavor.

“Smells better than the usual shit,” Zoro comments, “ definitely better than the fucking lemon-”

“Moss-” Sanji cuts him off, “I’m gonna need another year before we discuss the lemon failure, at least.” 

Zoro scrunches his face up in amusement, “I think I can talk about it as much as I goddamn want. It’s my room you stunk up.” 

“Our room,” Sanji scowls, pinching his lover’s elbow for emphasis. 

“First Mate’s cabin,” Zoro corrects. 

“Oh I’m sorry - I could have sworn you asked me to share it with you. As partners.” Sanji drawls, “but if it’s your room I’ll stop laundering your linens.” 

Zoro snorts, “what linens? You hog all of the sheets.” 

“Well not all of us are built like a furnace,” the blond retorts with a puff of smoke. 

“Says the chimney.” 

“Shithead.”

“Bastard- Oh hey-,”  Zoro finishes the curse with an abrupt halt to their steps and an air of excitement. “Curls, look,” he prompts with a grin, nodding towards a red brick building with a colorfully painted sign hanging over their front door. The looping scrawl adorned in its curves with artfully painted vines, all depicted over a ripe bushel of red apples. 

“Ester’s Cidery.” 

“Moss,” Sanji deadpans, “it’s nine in the goddamn morning.” 

“What’s your point?” Zoro frowns, which really would be a pout on anyone that wasn’t him. 

“My point is that it’s nine in the goddamn morning.” 

“That’s a stupid point.” 

“Your eloquence knows no bounds,” Sanji drawls. 

Zoro grunts, tugging the blond towards the building, “c’mon Curlybrows. I can get a drink and you can get all the farmer gossip so we know where to go after.” 

The blond scowls but doesn’t offer any resistance as he’s pulled towards the building. 

Sanji hates it when Zoro has a good point. 

The swordsman shoulders open the thick door to the building with his usual lack of decorum, a soft chime dinging as they enter. 

The Cidery is a small tavern, with a cherrywood bar and a handful of narrow booths. The tables are decorated with gingham runners and warm friendly lanterns. With quilted booth seats and a carefree atmosphere; it’s far cozier than either of them expected. 

Zoro hums in vague surprise, but quickly recovers and guides Sanji to a booth. The blond slides to the right hand seat, biting back a smile when Zoro ignores the booth across from him in favor of squeezing in at his side. The swordsman’s warm arm coming up to rest leisurely around the blond’s waist, his thumb landing along his hip bone. 

“Two drinks max,” Sanji tells him firmly. 

“Per hand?” Zoro asks, throwing him a crooked smile back. 

“You are such a-”

“Welcome to Ester’s Cidery! Home of Barrow’s best cider and fruit liqueurs, I’m Delilah,” a chipper young woman suddenly cuts in, tilting her head as she smiles and holds a notepad close to her chest, “could I get you started with a sample selection?” 

“Good morning, mademoiselle Delilah,” Sanji melts, leaning across the table and shoving Zoro’s bulk into the backrest so he can offer the women his full attention, “how many varieties are there?” 

“Currently, we have six varieties of cider and two liquors,” she tells them. 

Zoro snorts, looking back to the blond with a shit-eating grin. He mimes pretending to count up to eight and feigns surprise at the result. 

Sanji sighs, refusing to meet Zoro’s eyes as he resignedly tells the waitress, “could you bring one of each, please Dear? We’ll try them all.” 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

Eight glasses spread across the table between them in various stages of consumption. In the center of the table, a rough hewn wooden plate rests atop the gingham. A plating of local cheeses and nuts Delilah had brought them to pair with their drinks, courteously provided since they’d ordered everything on the drink menu. 

Sanji tries not to think too hard about how uncultured that makes them sound. 

The blond works his way through the selection with thoughtful decisions, sampling a drink before then deciding which of the nuts or cheeses would pair best and trying it again together, endlessly pleased when he finds a good pair on his first guess. 

Once he’s tried and tested to his satisfaction, occasionally forcing his lover to try the same, Sanji slides the rest of the alcohol over for Mossy sacrifice. 

“This one, Marimo,” Sanji slides a glass over towards the brute, “and with this-,” he holds up his pinched fingers to offer a small knob of gouda. 

“Whatsit?” Zoro asks, though he’s already opened his mouth, letting the cook press the cheese onto his tongue before he follows it up with a generous swig of an amber liquid. 

The cook grins as Zoro lets out an appreciative hum from the mixed flavor, the swordsman already taking a second pull from the glass. “That’s gouda,” Sanji explains, “paired with the Bourbon Apple. They ferment the cider in re-used bourbon barrels.” 

“It’s good.” 

“It’s very clever,” Sanji gushes, stealing the glass back to let a sip linger once more on his tongue. “Repurposing the barrels not only is a great way to sustain materials, but they’ve done it in a way that enhances the product.” 

“Nerd,” Zoro teases, though his tone drips with affection. His arm still rests casually along the line of Sanji’s hip, his fingers fidgeting, drawing warm shapes along the expanse of his lower back. Zoro leans in to draw a new drink closer to them, a bright red liquid in a squat sampling glass. His breath smells crisp and fruity when he speaks and Sanji tries not to think about kissing the oaf in public. “How bout this one?” Zoro prompts. 

Sanji lifts the glass to his lips, smelling the tart alcohol before he takes a sip. It’s rich, tangy and sharp across his tongue, “mhm- Pomegranate liqueur. Try it in a small sip. Do you know what that means, Marimo?” He teases as he graciously slides the glass over for the other man. 

“Ass,” Zoro replies, purposefully taking a gulp of the rich liquor to spite him before fighting a grimace over the overwhelming flavor. 

The blond snickers as he leans in to poke around the pairing snacks; pleased when he finds some almonds in the mixed nuts and plucking them into his palm. The broad selection piques his interest that Barrows might also have a variety of seasonings in their markets. 

“Here,” Sanji teases, pressing an almond into the seam of Zoro’s lips. The other man takes it between his teeth, his lower incisors scraping gently across the pad of Sanji’s thumb. “Better?” He checks. 

“Mhm,” the swordsman nods. 

“You know,” Sanji muses, “we might find the spices I’d need to make mulled wine on this island.” 

“Now you’re talking,” Zoro grins. 

The romantic in him flourishes, “we could share warm mugs of mulled wine in the crows nest? I could put together a charcuterie board and gather a few quilts. The weather here would be lovely for that.” 

“Hm,” the swordsman draws out the tone, “I dunno, sounds a lot like a date.” 

“Moss…Do you have any idea what we’re doing right now?” 

Zoro grin, crooked and handsome as he continues pressing sweet lines along Sanji’s side, “hanging out, having a drink.” 

“Definitely not a date?” Sanji prompts, letting his hand drift off the tabletop so he can set it gently atop the swordsman’s thigh. 

“Curls,” Zoro tuts his tongue and tugs the blond a little closer, “who goes on a date at nine in the goddamn morning?” 

Sanji drops his forehead into his lover's shoulder with a snort, using his collar to smother his laugh. 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

Sanji glares down at the town’s ruddy brick paths and chews on the end of a cigarette. 

It had been no more than five minutes. 

Where the fuck had that moron disappeared to?

After their drinks were finished, Sanji had lingered in the cidery to use the bathroom while Zoro had stepped outside for the wait. 

What a fucking mistake. 

If the man’s sense of direction didn’t have to compete with his idle curiosity Sanji thinks Zoro would be a less frustrating person. 

Sanji ends up stopping a short ways away from the main street, where the brickwork grows sparse and the path turns to packed dirt. A weather-worn fence guides a path out into a stretch of fields and scattered houses, a dense treeline flush at their edges. 

He takes a long draw from his smoke. At this rate, Sanji had been on most of the nearby streets in the vicinity looking for the moss-headed bastard and it was unlikely he would locate him anytime soon. The blonde muses that he might as well get his shopping done and then look for him after. 

Zoro could make it up to him with a massage for the extra work. 

“You lost, wanderer?” 

Sanji pivots on his heel, raising his eyebrows as an elderly gentleman waves a hand in greeting. The man has weathered tan skin on a stout but crooked frame; with a respectable heft to his form that spoke of hard labor and crows feet that framed kind eyes. 

“Not exactly,” Sanji replies, “though I’ve misplaced a friend, I’m afraid. Green hair, three swords;” the blond parrots the familiar line, “have you seen him?”  

The man tuts his tongue in sympathy, leaning a thin hand out onto the worn post of the trail, “no, sorry I haven’t. But the island’s not too big and the forests not unfriendly. I’m sure he’ll find his way in time.” 

Sanji plucks his cigarette from his mouth and offers a broad smile, “the sentiments are appreciated, my good man. Though my concerns lie more with the trouble he might cause rather than the trouble he’ll find. ” 

“Hah!” The man chortles, “all you young pirates are such rascals.” 

“Ah, ” the cook grimaces, “I’m not-” 

“Eh don’t bother lying to a local,” he interjects, tapping his nose and offering a kind smile, “there’s no marines on this slip of land. Don’t cause trouble and there won’t be trouble.” He offers sagely. 

“Of course,” Sanji forces a smile, trying not to picture the absolute chaos his crew might have already stirred up in town. “My crew means no harm. We’re merely here to re-supply our ship and will be on our way.” 

“Lots of adventures to have, I’m sure!” The man laughs, scratching at the stubble on his chin as he peers off toward the center of the island, “they all in town then?” 

The cook grimaces, taking a leisurely drag of his cigarette, “all but the one.” 

“Right, right, your lost sheep.” 

Sanji snorts in amusement. Ever wary, but more or less pacified by the amicable conversation, the blond takes in the older man’s drab and efficient clothing. The age of sun on his skin and the dirt on the bed of his nails. 

“Forgive me, but are you by chance a farmer?” Sanji prompts, and at the cautious rise of the man's eyebrow he continues on with his best customer service smile, “I only ask as I’m the ship's cook, you see. So it’s my duty to re-supply the food stores.” 

“Are you, boy?” The man’s eyes light up, thumbing absently at his lower lip in thought, “you don’t seem like one of them stock‘em and stuff‘em kinda cooks.” 

Sanji scoffs pridefully, “flavor and nutrition are even more important when on the sea.” 

“How wonderfully refreshing!” The man grins as he speaks once more, “yes, yes, I unearthed a good harvest just this week!”

“I have berri, if you have any ready to part with,” Sanji offers; because with age comes experience, and with kind hearts comes lower prices. 

“Of course! Yes!” He takes his knobled hand from the post and claps them together, “ Follow me, boy. I’ll set you right.”

Sanji grins, gesturing for the farmer to lead the way. The man nods and falls into step along the dirt path, directing them away from the town and further into the outskirts of the lush island. 

“The name’s Holbein, by the way.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m Sanji.” 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

The farm Sanji’s led to is a modest plot of land. There’s a quaint one story house on the east side of the property, a detached shed, and at least two acres of fields. 

Sanji follows Holbein’s sedate pace towards the shed. Only about a third of the farmland appears planted, with stout green leaves resting low to the soil. The rest of the land is freshly toiled; the earth is dark and lush, the ground soft beneath their understep.

The cook can see why the island has such viable produce, with soil rich as this.

“Yer in luck, boy. I got a slew of potatoes, onions, and garlic that I dug up just this week.” 

Sanji grins, “that is some luck.” 

The farmer unlatches the weathered shed with a heave of the latch, the hinges squeaking and the smell of damp earth spilling out from beyond the doors. 

The shed is packed full of crates, spilling over with fat and healthy root vegetables. Sanji can already picture the incredible soups he’ll be able to concoct, a medley of casseroles and rich, hardy additions to pastas and stir frys. 

Holbein is directing him towards one of the crates when the other items in the shed catch the blond’s eye. 

Three unusual cages, tall as a man in height and only a few feet wide at most. Two of them are standing upright, leaning against the wall, while the last is resting on the floor. There are tightly placed metal bars around the entire edge, while the front and back are solid sheets of metal. Even stranger, one of the flat walls has a riveted port hole. 

The blond must have paused too long, staring at the odd items, as he’s startled to attention as Holbein suddenly speaks up next to him. 

“Ah,” Holbein comments, “I wasn’t always a farmer, you see. In my prime I was a fisherman,” he explains with a tint of pride in his voice. 

Sanji frowns, leaning over the strange contraption on the ground, “what kind of fish do you go after with these? ” 

“Sea beasts,” the man grins, tapping a toed boot fondly on the bars, “takes a heart of steel to go down in one of these beauties. We’d chum up the water and send a few men down at a time with seastone harpoons.” 

“Damn,” the blond muses, pushing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. 

Holbein pursues his thin lips, “Ya, I couldn’t keep that up forever- Not that many of us made it to such a ripe age.”

Sanji squats down to the diving cage, plucking his cigarette between his fingers as he pokes curiously at the seastone bars, “seastones a rare material, my crew might be interested in trading for one of these.” 

“Oh I dunno bout that.” The man scratches at his stubble, “I find uses for ‘em.” 

“As you like, then,” the blond shrugs with a smirk, “perhaps our navigator could convince you.” 

Holbein gives a noncommittal grunt and Sanji leans back on his haunches, relenting with ease. He’s worked enough customer service to know when to back away from a sour deal. 

“Ah well,” Sanji smirks, hands landing on his knees as he moves to push himself to stand, “shall we see about that produce, then?” 

“Aye,” the man replies bluntly. 

And suddenly there’s an arm wrapping around Sanji’s throat, heaving him backwards and into a chokehold. 

“Shit- Wha-!?” The blond hisses, hands scrambling to instinctively claw at the meat of the forearm as he kicks out. But Holbein keeps Sanji’s windpipe locked in his grasp, dragging him away from the walls and anything he could possibly use to get leverage against the other man. 

Panic sears hot in his veins as his oxygen quickly dwindles, unable to pry away from the hold.

What the hell?

How the fuck was this old man managing to restrain him? 

Sanji’s fingernails slip against what feels like steel instead of skin and a distant thought registers. 

Armament haki. 

“Sorry boy, I do like ya,” Holbein grunts as Sanji gasps under the pressure of his arm on his throat. His chest burns and heaves but barely a sliver of air makes it through to his lungs and it’s not enough . 

His heels dig into the ground and he feels one of the planks of the floorboards crack beneath him. It doesn’t change anything. Black encroaches on his vision and the last thing he sees is the glint of the sun reflecting on the porthole of the diving cage; Holbein’s rasping voice in his ear. 

“Healthy men make healthy bones.” 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

Zoro lost the cook. 

Sanji had to piss so Zoro had gone outside the cidery to wait. 

He didn’t mean to step away. The Cidery was in the shade and so Zoro had crossed the street to stand in the sun, soaking up the morning warmth as he waited. 

Then the sun got in his eyes and a cart stacked with fat pumpkins rolled by. After it’d passed, Zoro grew concerned that might have meant he missed Sanji stepping out of the cidery so he went to cross the street again and suddenly he didn't see the door to the cidery at all.  

Goddammit. 

Zoro spends the rest of his day wandering around the main market areas, eventually falling asleep on a grassy knoll overlooking the main square. The buzz of idle chatter and wooden clanking of carts and crates filtering up from the town and over the grass like white noise. 

Sanji would find him eventually. 

He always did. 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

“-alive?” 

Zoro wakes in a flurry of movement, two swords drawn and eyes wild, searching for the Sunny’s intruders. 

“Holy shit!” 

“-ack up! Back up!” 

Two teenagers in practical, cotton attire are scrambling to put distance between them and himself on the hill. Tripping over themselves to race back towards Barrow’s square as fast as their lanky legs can carry them. 

The swordsman blinks, sheathing his swords just as quickly as he’d released them as his surroundings reach his sleep-hazed brain. “Oh, shit, sorry.” 

The brats are already gone. 

Zoro looks up at the sky and scowls, his stomach clutching over itself in grumbles. 

The star dotted sky looks back at him and he registers it with a pinch of unease. He’d expected to be awoken by a shoe through his ribs hours ago. Sanji didn’t usually take this long to find him when they got separated on an island, especially if he didn’t leave town. 

The swordsman tries to recall if he’d done anything to piss his lover off recently, but couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary. Their impromptu date at the cidery had been fun, and Sanji had been in good spirits then. 

Another option poses itself; 

They’d been planning to sleep on the Sunny tonight, saving their berri for shopping rather than renting a bed in town. Sanji could be there, already hogging the blankets and drooling on Zoro’s pillow. 

Or maybe he’d found the spices he wanted and set up his cozy cook nest, waiting with a hot mug of mulled wine, the steam making his bangs curl into the loose waves that made his features softer.  

Sanji had probably squirreled away his damn robe again, too. Always stealing Zoro’s shit when the nights drew cold and tucking away in his larger clothes; with his too-big collars, scrunched sleeves and his shitty, charming smile.

“Fuck,” Zoro mumbles to himself, scrubbing the flush of affection that blooms on his neck. 

Where the hell were the docks? 

෴𓇠෴𓇠෴

Sanji comes to with a shiver. 

His torso curling and his fingers flaring to the shocking chill of metal at his back. It’s as surprising as it is terrifying; and when Sanji hits his forehead on glass he shuts his eyes tight in fear of coming to the realization that’s already hit him. 

Sanji gathers the wit to open his eyes, the truth of the situation like a weight on his chest as he looks up into the glass of the diving cage porthole. The evening sky is staring back at him, framed by aged, foggy crystal and gunmetal rivets. 

Fuck.

What the fuck. 

Sanji strains to make out anything through the porthole but all he can see is the dark of the evening sky framed by a tunneling height of dirt. He feverishly feels about the space, and realizes as he presses his hands into bars above him that the original form of the cage had no shielded front. It was sheet metal welded atop of seastone bars. Sanji presses his fingertips into the points of the rivets and blinks, childishly hoping when his eye reopened the sight would be different. 

It wasn’t. 

This wasn’t really a seastone diving cage.

Not anymore. 

“What the fuck?” He says, this time aloud. The sound is clear to his own ears and it hits him with a tangibility that he does not want. Instinctively curling his shoulders inward and trying to even the breaths that were already spiraling out of control. 

“No- nono no ,” Sanji cuts himself off, feeling the feral need to scream building in his chest. 

With a snap of fury, the blond kicks his knee up and into the lid. The metal reverberates with the force but does not budge. 

The failure instantly tips him into a spiral. 

“Hello?!” Sanji yells, digging his heels and knees and hips into the walls of the coffin without any good room for leverage or force. “Holbein you fuck?! Anyone?!” 

A whistling tune breaks the silence, drawn out and solemn. It reminds Sanji of what sailors requested to have played at the Baratie when they were feeling hollow and reminiscent. 

It reminds him of a funeral dirge. 

“Holbein!” 

The whistling cuts off and a rough voice picks up words in the same rhythm, “ The sea takes and she takes-” 

It is Holbein’s voice, Sanji recognizes as his chest clenches in terror. 

“-land carves way and still we linger-” 

“Holbein! ” Sanji yells, his voice straining with the force and filling the small space with a horrible echo, “Are you there? Let me out!” 

“-But they say there's strength with bones in the soil- 

“They say-” 

There’s a heave of movement in his voice followed by the scrape of metal in earth that Sanji can picture in horrifying clarity. 

“Sea water for the devils,” Holbein sings, his voice coarse and haunting as he leans over the hole and meets Sanji gaze through the porthole of the coffin. “Toiled earth for men.” 

The older man shifts out of view and Sanji’s breath catches tight in his throat as the first shovel of soil lands on the coffin. The sound of the dirt landing flatly on the metal echoing and real; way too fucking real. The blond presses his palms against the lid and feels a swell of panic again. Of energy coiling and frantic with no where to fucking go. 

Another slap of earth lands on the coffin, then another. The rhythmic sound intermingling with the man’s rough whistling. 

“-There’s strength with bones in the soil-” 

The earth is piling up and every slap of it landing above him feels as if it’s landing directly on his chest. A scatter of dry earth rolls across the porthole and Sanji’s view of the sky slowly diminishes with each addition. 

“Stop!” Sanji screams, his voice catching and tipping into a sheer pitch of near hysterics as he digs his fingertips around the glass of the window and curls his knees up as tight as he can manage in the narrow space, “let me out! Please!” 

A gruesome wail boils up from his churning stomach and he lets it out with heaving lungs. 

“No! Let me out! Please! Luffy! Help me! ” Sanji’s voice catches on the inhale and he presses his forehead into the dirt covered window, “Please! Zoro!” 

──────────⏱︎

Hours later, after the sounds of shifting earth had dissipated and silence settled like a fog, Sanji blinked against pitch black darkness and did nothing to stop the tears falling from his eyes. 

After wearing himself to exhaustion thrashing about in anger and panic, the blond had ended up twisted himself between opposite corners of the cage; hiking one hip up as he shoved the alternating shoulder down so his limbs could curl into a semblance of a embrace. One knee reaching his chest as the other wedged nearby, lower but at high as he could hike it. 

Somehow, feeling the tension of his limbs pressing against the bars made him feel safer. Maybe it was a trick of the mind, as if he were going to eventually press through if he willed it long enough; maybe it was just because he was taking up as much physical space as was allowed of him. 

Either way, it still wasn’t enough. 

Holbein’s song drones on in his head. Sanji feels nauseous thinking about it, how impressed he’d been with the rich soil of the island. The fields he’d awed over. 

The way he’d gushed about the repurposed bourbon barrels in the cidery. Praising the creativity of using alternative materials to enhance the flavors of the product, not unlike his own citrus cigarettes. 

The drinks he’d shared with Zoro that morning churn in his stomach.

Were all the islanders using live corpses for fertilizer? 

Or just Holbein? 

Fuck, where was Zoro? Would he return to the Sunny, surprised Sanji hadn’t made it back yet? Or had he found a peaceful field and lost track of time, meditating late into the evening hours, unaware of his lover’s plight?

Had Zoro been taken before him? Was he trapped underground somewhere too? 

Sanji tries to force the thought from his mind the instant it forms. The thought of Zoro pounding against the bars, growing weak and cold…. 

Surely it was just Sanji. Gods, he hoped so. 

The cook clenches his teeth as he shivers. The cold touch of seastone sapping any warmth he might gather before he can grasp it. He takes a slow, even breath, trying to stay as calm as he can.

The air he pulls in is musty and thick, it tastes like dirt in the back of his throat. Sanji swallows it down and focuses on the warmth from the tear tracks on his cheeks. He’d thought of reaching an arm through the bars on the side, of taking more space for himself. He’d even pushed a finger into the earth on this right, feeling the give of the soil. 

It’s dense, packed earth.

Would it crumble if he disturbed it? Spill into the coffin and take the little space he has? 

Would it bring insects? 

Sanji pictures shoving his arm out of the cage, surrounded by moist soil and squirming, curious bugs. Crawling across and around his skin and nibbling on his arm hair and-.

Sanji would keep his limbs inside the cage. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and presses his arms harder against the bar, exerting himself with tension to calm his fight or flight instinct.

Sanji imagines himself in the stomach of a great monster. 

The gullet of the earth swallowing him up, letting him rot in the acid of the loam until he’s tender and soft. 

Until he’s just bones for the soil.  

──────────⏱︎─

He never found the docks. 

Zoro had spent a good portion of his evening trailing along a worn path that he swore had been labeled to reach the pier. But he’d followed it for hours and only ended up in the fucking woods. 

Once Sanji had told Zoro that if they got really separated on an island, that Zoro should find the coastline and walk with his swords to the water. And that Sanji would do the same, but in the other direction. That eventually they would have to meet up. 

It had actually worked a few times so far, and the swordsman had intended to follow suit if Sanji hadn’t been on the Sunny. 

But Zoro couldn’t even find the damn shore. 

Barrows is small in population, but incredibly large in land mass. The majority of its expanse is taken up by large farms and orchards. 

Thankfully used to taking watch and having gotten a nap in during the daylight, Zoro spent the entire night trudging between dense foliage and traipsing across farmland. 

So. Much. Fucking. Farmland. 

─────────⏱︎──

Exhaustion was setting in like a hangover and Sanji was having trouble restraining his emotions. 

“I’m not going to fucking die here!” He snarls, slamming his knee up and into the bars until the joint is swollen and aching. The blond has to bite his tongue when the urge to flare diable jambe comes to him in his frustration. 

The flames would feast on the little air Sanji had if he dared let them free. 

With a huff that breaks into an ugly sob, the cook collapses back against the floor. He lets his arms fall limp beside him, wishing to be anywhere but in his own body. 

How long could he survive here? 

What might kill him first? 

Dehydration, oxygen deprivation, starvation? 

Which would reach him the soonest? Which would draw it out the longest? 

Which would Sanji prefer? 

“Fuck,” he hisses, digging the hilts of his filthy hands into his eyes. 

If he couldn’t get out on his own, then time was the only weapon Sanji had. To live long enough for his crewmates to find him. 

Because they would. Sanji believed that. He had to believe that. 

The shivering grows too strong again and he tries to curl up, only still able to manage it in partial. It spikes his frustration, the helplessness to not even be able to embrace himself for comfort. 

When had he never had that? 

Sanji tries to picture himself elsewhere. That he’s back on the Sunny, in the first mate’s cabin. It’s a cold night and the window’s cracked to let the breeze in. The linen of the sheets are cool against his skin and he huddles up closer to Zoro’s warmth. The swordsman starfished out on his back except for one arm, securely wrapped around the blond’s shoulders to keep him flush against his side. 

Sanji presses his face into the tawny skin of his lover’s chest, the first sensation holding a chill until his skin seeps the inherent heat of Zoro’s own. A calloused hand brushes through Sanji’s hair, threading between the locks until it rests at the base of his neck, a thumb brushing a soft wet line down the curve of his cheek. 

Oh, he’s crying again. 

Sanji swallows thickly, pressing his own thumb into his skin and wiping away the tears. Goddammit, he couldn’t die here. 

He can’t die here. 

With a scarcely gathered semblance of control; Sanji's thoughts turn rigid. A rotating list of instructions in order to keep himself from veering into panic. 

Keep your mouth shut. 

But don’t think about your air. 

Change positions to keep from going stiff. 

But don’t think about the chill. 

Remind yourself that you’re alive. 

────────⏱︎───

“Have you seen a blond around here? Smoking? Wearing a suit?”

“No, sorry.” 

“Hey have-”

“Off! Off the carrots!!” 

“Sorry- I’m looking for a blond. Or a reindeer even? Guy with a long nose, maybe?” 

“No, get out of here you’re gonna trample the turnips!” 

“Which way to the docks?” 

“Which ones?” 

“... How about the main square?” 

“That’d be east, then.” 

“Which way is east?” 

“Have you seen a blond around?”

“No one’s come by that don’t work here today ‘cept you.” 

───────⏱︎────

Breathe out hard enough to clear the dirt from your lungs. 

But don’t think about the dirt. 

Keep your hands out of the soil. 

But don’t think about why. 

Stretch your legs when they start to ache. 

But don’t think about your stomach. 

You’re alive, Sanji. 

Right now, you’re still alive. 

──────⏱︎──────

When Zoro steps out of the underbrush and onto another farm, grumbles something unsavory under his breath. 

The entire island was goddamn farms and they all looked the fucking same.  

Dirt and plants, fences and livestock, trees and sheds.  

He tromps through a field towards the center of his latest find without much care of his footsteps. The ground is pliant, recently tilled and possibly seeded. There’s a rickety old house in the center of the farm with a small shed nearby that he aims towards. 

Even if the landowner didn’t know where Sanji was, maybe Zoro could still get some decent goddamn directions back to town. He’d been meandering from farm to farm for the better half of the day and, at this rate he’d be grateful to run into any of his crewmates. 

The late afternoon sun was warm on his shoulders as he made his way to the front of the farmhouse, noticing quickly on his approach that there was audible shuffling and movement from the shed a few paces aside. 

Zoro switches goals and sets a hand loosely on Yubashiri’s hilt as he approaches. The large wooden doors to the shed are propped open, and he catches sight of one half of the space before he sees its inhabitant. His eyes first land on two cages leaning upright, against a wall of the shed. 

They remind him of the barrels he, Luffy, and Sanji had worn when they’d scavenged that ship from Skypiea. 

The fuck would those be doing on a farm? 

Whatever. He quickly shakes it off. Not his problem. 

Zoro’s steps take him closer and he squints against the sunlight as he makes out the shape of a crooked old man working between wooden crates further back in the shed. He stops at the threshold. 

“Oi.” 

The man startles, dropping a potato to the floor as he turns with a surprising amount of agility in his age. Zoro watches with disinterest as the farmer’s gaze lingers on the blades at his hip, used to the caution and concern he often gathers at their presence. 

“You seen a blond around here?” Zoro asks without preamble, “m’lookin for my crewmate.” 

“Ah, no?” The farmer blinks back at him in surprise. 

Zoro grunts in disappointment, shifting his weight as he considers his next steps. 

“A crew implies a ship,” the man comments, “you’re quite a ways from any dock on this spit of land.” 

“Yeah,” the swordsman says, as if he knows that.

Which is does ; but not in any way that's helpful. 

The old man smirks in clear amusement, “you should head back to town. Lots more people to ask there.” 

Zoro grimaces, hating to ask but needing to anyway, “which way to town?” 

“That path’ll take you straight to main street,” the farmer nods, pointing past Zoro’s shoulder. The swordsman follows the path of his knobby finger to a wooden fenced path starting from the edge of the treeline. 

“Got it.” 

“If I see your blond, I’ll send him that way,” the farmer offers. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Zoro waves him off, running a hand coarsely through his hair and glaring around at the farm. 

With a final sigh, he pivots and strides off once more. Boots digging into the soil and kicking up clods of dirt as he makes headway for the fence on the edge of the treeline. 

He rubs a thumb idly along the silk thread of Yubishari’s hilt. 

It was time, he thinks, to gather reinforcements. Even if Zoro was the half of them that was lost, it unsettled him to not see the blond for such a long time frame. 

Robin would probably be at a bookstore and Chopper was likely to be hunting down any clinics for research notes. Either of them would be better trackers for the cook, and both would therefore likely be in town. 

Zoro would follow the odd farmer's instructions and get back to the crux of the action. 

─────⏱︎───────

Sanji’s observation haki flares to life as if set aflame, the sensation jarring after being condensed into silence for so long. 

Like smelling fresh blood, his haki latches onto a sense of life at the edges of its reaches. A living soul that it knows better than any other . 

Zoro. 

Sanji almost thinks he’s hallucinating it; Zoro’s presence is on the fringe of his senses. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

But he also can’t risk the chance that he’s real. That Zoro could be nearby above him right now. 

The blond reaches out, threading his hands between the bars and shoving his fingers through the soil without care, wrapping around the metal and holding tight to ground himself. 

“Marimo,” Sanji whispers, his voice hoarse from screaming and thick with mucus, “ I’m here.” 

He focuses, pushing his haki out and searching. Stretching it thin and far. He presses past the earth in slow, measured progress, the dense environment feeling akin to working through a sieve. 

Sanji wasn’t aware that observation haki was intended to be used in such a fashion. To be purposefully felt. Just because Sanji could reach him didn’t mean Zoro would notice. The swordsman was better with armament haki. He could use the haki of observation.  

But not overtly well. Often not even at will.

The chances that Zoro would be able to pick up the tendrils of Sanji’s haki threading through the soil was, honestly, horrifyingly low. 

And stretching himself so thin was draining, the energy required to reach the surface took all of Sanji’s concentration. He wraps his hands tighter on the bars of the cage and clenches his jaw; constantly pouring of energy into the efforts. 

The moment his haki reaches Zoro, Sanji nearly loses hold of his progress. His haki wavering like water through carefully cupped fingers.

It’s really Zoro, Sanji knows it. 

He knows the way his lover’s soul feels. Warm and firm, with a bite of lethality that lingers at his periphery- In a vicious way that feels safe. 

“I’m here,” Sanji chokes out, “Zoro please.” 

But the warmth wavers and falls away. Sand slipping between his fingertips and leaving his grasp empty. 

“No- No Zoro!” 

Sanji tries to reach further, he presses against the cold seastone and stupidly yells. He knows it’s a waste of air, that there’s no way Zoro could hear him. But he can’t help it, the way the screams pull from his burning lungs and rattle his vocal chords.

The feeling of Zoro’s presence slipping from his grasp is more painful than the fear of death. 

“Zoro! Mossy please!” 

“Zoro!”

────⏱︎────────

Zoro’s only a few feet from the farmer’s shed before he notices it. 

He pauses, mid-step as something white catches his eye in the soil. Something familiar. 

It’s a half-smoked cigarette, the filter bent and crushed from the clench of teeth- 

-with a dot of orange ink on the wrapping.  

Suddenly, the farmer’s statement rings with a different angle. 

“If I see your blond, I’ll send him that way.” 

Zoro hadn’t ever mentioned his crewmate was a man . 

He’s moving in the span of a breath, turning on the ball of his foot and pushing off with enough pressure to launch himself before the old man has a chance to yell. Drawing Wado and pressing her edge into the man’s throat as they crash into the back of the shed, crates splintering and the sharp tang of squashed onions filling the air. 

Wado edge slides harmlessly along the man’s neck, her threat neutralized by skin darkened with the protection of armament haki. 

It’s enough to confirm what Zoro already suspects. 

“Where is he?” Zoro snarls. 

The farmer forces a cough out, “what gave it away?” 

“That’s his cigarette in your field,” Zoro growls. 

“Damn,” the old man snorts, with an air of nonchalance. 

“The blond,” Zoro persists, “where?” 

“Which one are ya?” The man asks back instead, with an air of genuine curiosity. 

Zoro isn’t sure what he means. He glares back at him, a stream of blood drips from the corner of the farmer’s mouth, red coating the teeth of his smirk. 

“Luffy or Zoro?” 

“What?” He finds himself snarling back. The specificity itself is ominous and -fuck- it’s probably not anything that’s going to fucking help him find Sanji but he wants to know all the same. 

“Lemme guess, Zoro? ” The man chuckles to himself, “you look like a Zoro more than’a Luffy.” 

“Blond hair, dark blue suit,” Zoro growls. “Where is he?”

The man laughs again, unconcerned by the blade at his neck, “Well, ‘ green hair, three swords’ - I found’im looking for you.” 

Zoro has to swallow the howl of frustration that builds in his mouth. It’s an obvious taunt. 

It hits bitingly sharp because Zoro believes it.  

“Where is he?” 

“Why bother telling, you’ll kill me either way, “the farmer drawls. 

“Then give me a reason to be merciful,” the swordsman grits out between his teeth. 

“Death is a purpose, I don’t fear it.” 

“There are things worse than death .” Zoro snarls, shoving the older man further into the ground with enough force to make his bones creak. He stares him down and dares him to see the cruelty he could foster. 

“Calm d-down, boy,” the man wheezes, “I left him al-alive.” 

“Where?” 

“Hah-” the corner of the man’s lip turns up in an amused sneer, his gaze trailing off to the side, “somewhere between plot fourteen and twenty two.” 

“What?” Zoro scowls, “what the fuck does that-?” 

He follows the man’s eyeline and feels his stomach drop. His throat tightens, as if a cord wound about his windpipe and tugged it into his chest. 

The cages. 

Zoro forces the next word out with a sandpaper tongue; “When?” 

“Ye -wheeze- Yesterday mornin.” 

───⏱︎───────

“Curly!?” 

“Curls! Sanji!?” 

Fury burns tears into the backs of Zoro’s eyes as he scrambles his way across the fields. 

He needed to find him. 

“Curly!” Zoro yells. 

How big were those cages? How much air would Sanji have? If it wasn’t sealed, would it still be limited? 

One time, when Luffy had joked about leaving himself in the fridge to gorge himself, Robin told them the sealed cooler would only provide enough oxygen for him to survive a few hours. 

A few hours. 

Sanji had been buried alive yesterday. 

The crew might be able to help him look faster, but the risk that Zoro might not find his way back to the farm was too high. 

The risk that gathering them would take too much time was too high. 

Zoro presses a palm to his own chest, trying to stave off the rolling, horrid thoughts that surged in the back of his mind. 

That Sanji might already be dead. 

You’ll never see his smile again. 

You’ll never hold him in your arms, or feel the soft threads of his hair part between your fingers. 

You’ll never meet his gaze across a battlefield, vibrant and victorious; or wake to his warm breath across your skin. 

No. No no no! 

Zoro would find him, and he would find him alive. 

Even if he had to dig up the entire island, he would find him. 

Zoro had stuffed the farmer into one of his own goddamn cages, needing to keep him alive for the time being, but secured. He’d laughed as Zoro sealed him in with his own locks, unconcerned and unrepentant. 

The swordsman has a shovel in hand with a white-knuckled grip, traipsing across the fields as he reads the markers the psychopath had placed in his fields. Narrow wooden stakes, with numbers etched into the top. 

Thirteen. 

Eighteen. 

Twenty three. 

Sanji was here. 

Fuck, Sanji was here somewhere.  

He had used Yubishari to mark plot fourteen and Kitestu to mark the twenty second. Raving between them like a predator, searching for signs of where Sanji might have been placed and digging furiously when he couldn’t find any. The space between the markers was twice the size of the Sunny’s deck. 

How the fuck was he supposed to do this? 

How could he search faster?

Zoro glares at the surface of the field resting at his shoulders from the most recent hole he’d dug; he heaves lungfuls of air as he catches his breath and bites down the guilt that he can do so freely. Sweat soaks his shirt and he ties his bandana around his head to keep it from dripping into his eyes before he moves to the next attempt. 

Once, Sanji had been inadvertently locked in the Going Merry’s pantry. 

A new mechanism Usopp had attempted to install to keep Luffy out had backfired, trapping the cook in the small space for no more than an hour when Zoro had found him. 

They’d been on the fringes of a relationship at that point, so when the swordsman had discovered the blond in the middle of a full blown panic attack he’d been uncertain what to do. Sanji had been a mess, to say the least. His hair wild from the scratch of his fingertips and the wet, red rimmed blues of his eyes dragging Zoro’s heart to the depths of the sea for the other man. 

It was infuriating, that there was no adversary to take on for the pain Sanji felt. The terror that had surfaced had no villain for Zoro to challenge. The only thing he could offer was the safety of his arms. 

Sanji had curled into his lap and tucked his head beneath Zoro’s chin, matching their breathing until he could speak without hiccuping. 

Zoro never asked why it had frightened him so, even when they’d become something softer, more intertwined. 

He remembers drawing his thumbs through the teartracks of Sanji’s cheeks and promising him it’d never happen again. 

The swordsman heaves dirt over his shoulder and grunts with the strain of overexertion. 

Plot sixteen. 

Plot seventeen. 

Plot eighteen. 

Zoro keeps digging. He keeps moving. 

He tries not to think of how cruelly he’d failed. 

──⏱︎────────

The air is getting thin. 

Sanji can feel it. The way his lungs burn, unable to pull what he needs. The way his mind grows fuzzy, his muscles feel sluggish and lax. 

He tries to relax his body, tries to focus solely on his haki. 

It’s the only thing that might save him anyway. 

Sanji worries how Zoro might feel, if he finds him too late. 

If he finds him at all. 

He mourns the thought of his lover finding him dead in the earth, how his hard-headed swordsman would carry the weight for the rest of his life. 

Goddammit, Sanji doesn’t want that. 

It’s infuriating, to have such little control; in even death. 

Sanji could carve declarations of forgiveness into his own skin and still, he knows his crew would never accept it. 

That no matter what he did, Zoro would lay the failure on his own shoulders and put his efforts into learning how to carry it. To honor it. 

Sanji wipes the tears from his own cheeks and sucks them into his mouth, unwanted as they are. The salt of them is sharp on his tongue but he refuses to let them go to waste. 

He will survive. 

If only to spare others from the space he’d leave behind. 

─⏱︎────────

Plot nineteen. 

Plot twenty. 

Zoro has left the field ravaged in his wake.

The sun has dipped low, spilling orange and reds across the fields as the air begins to cool. He thinks he might hear the old farmer whistling from across the distance and Zoro cannot take the moment to acknowledge the passage of time. 

Because time is air. 

Time is Sanji, waiting for him deep in the earth, trapped and panicking. 

And until Zoro has him in his arms, time needs to fucking wait. 

His bandana is soaked in sweat; digging doesn’t match the mechanisms of swordsmanship and his forearms ache from the strain. 

It’s when Zoro strides into plot twenty one that he feels something. 

He’d been across it before, having checked each field for signs of recent disturbances before he started digging; but this is different. 

Something cold washes over him, like the seaspray misting across his back from a rogue wave. A glimpse of blue and yellow shifting just out of the corner of his eye, no matter where he turns. 

Something familiar, vibrant and alive ; Zoro kneels, trying to focus on the sensation. He scowls, digging his knees into the dirt as he clenches his eyes shut tight to try and focus. 

Of the three colors of haki, observation was his worst. 

What should flow easily ran like sludge in his veins. Sanji had once described it to him like water, like a river sliding over the smooth pebbles of a stream and sliding into the gaps of the world. 

Zoro’s never worked like that. Armament came far easier, and observation functioned more like a spyglass. Only offering what he managed to focus on; muddy and coarse until he could clear the lens. 

With a grunt, Zoro leans over and shoves his hands deep into the toiled earth, clenching the soil between the clench of his fists and searching for the water that had spilled across his back. The hues that had shifted across his periphery, even for only a moment. 

The river beneath the soil, waiting to be unearthed. 

⏱︎──────────

Sanji feels like he’s floating above himself, his consciousness entirely removed as he shoves intent and purpose into his haki trying to make it palpable. Tears gather and spill down his cheeks. 

I’m here. 

Zoro, I’m here!

Find me! 

Please find me!

Suddenly, a rush of furious energy washes over him in a single flash. 

It’s not searching or tentative, it doesn’t seep and spill like water. 

It’s a burning declaration, with flames of evergreen sparked by steel. 

“I’m coming for you.” 

“Yes! I’m here!” Sanji gasps, pressing his forehead into the lid of the coffin. His throat tightens and tension coils in his chest. He strains to keep his haki present, a beacon for his lover to find, “please, please, Zoro!”

His air is still slowly abating, Sanji tries to ignore how he has to increase his breathing rate to stay awake. His world is pitch black, but still he feels how his vision encroaches with a shudder of disorientation. The knowledge that unconsciousness lingers nearby, and he’s unlikely to awake should he succumb. 

“Please,” he whispers, trying to picture that his haki is a monument. A spike of life, a promise. Though his breath feels weak, his muscles don’t respond the way he wishes. 

Sanji wraps his hands around the bars at his side, wanting to hold something even as they lose the strength to press into the lid above him. 

He doesn’t want to give up. 

He doesn’t.  

There’s a flux of frustration and anger that coil in his limbs, constantly wishing to lash out and burn the fuel he has left. Sanji has to bite down on his bottom lip to try and contain it. Practically comes first and he fights the adrenaline that spikes as his mortal form realizes death looms. 

Survival comes first. 

Sanji has always put survival first. He’s done it before and he can do it again. 

He forces air from his nose and tries to slow his breathing once more, even despite the hitch in his breath that grows desperate for more oxygen. 

THUD.

“Shit-” Sanji startles as something hits the metal lid of the cage. His hope skyrockets and he presses his hands flush to the surface of the coffin once more, “Moss!?” 

Suddenly there’s a rough scraping of metal, movement rhythmic and heavy until suddenly, dirt is beginning to clear from the glass of the porthole. 

Sanji gasps, a keen of surprise and relief high in the back of his throat as warm sunlight abruptly threads through a narrow gap in the glass. Barely an inch wide, and yet he frames it with his fingertips, knees bunching up as if he could escape through the sliver of freedom. 

There’s another solid thud that rattles the cage before tan hands are brushing away more earth from the porthole, bare sunlight making the blond blink and squint against the brightness before a familiar face comes into view beyond the fogged glass. Green hair and wild, steel eyes. 

“Sanji! Fuck!- You’re alive. Sanji!” 

Zoro’s face immediately pulls tears from his eyes, the blond unable to prevent the sobs falling from his throat as his lover comes into view. 

The swordsman disappears from the narrow view of the porthole and Sanji nearly cries out, but the clamoring noise and shift of earth around him is a reassurance that his lover is still nearby, working to release him of his prison. 

He can feel a fresh flow of air that gathers his senses as the dirt shifts and the solidity of being saved brings a fresh round of tears to his eyes. The blond pressing the hilt of his hands into the bars above him with anxious excitement. 

“Zoro!” 

Sunlight spills into the porthole and Zoro’s voice is clear and beautiful. 

“Nearly there, Curls.” 

There’s another harsh scrape of metal against metal before suddenly the entire cage is being heaved upward, a jarring movement that has Sanji scrambling to latch onto the bars along the side as he’s tossed surface-side. 

“Marimo!” He can’t help but gasp, kicking pitifully against the lid of the coffin as he sees Zoro’s dark pants kneel into the dirt next to him. 

“I got you; fuck Curls, I got you.” 

Sanji listens impatiently to the slide of a blade against metal before a lock clicks open and the lid lifts with a creak of raw friction. 

The moment the cage pries open Sanji is launching himself upwards into Zoro’s arms, the swordsman collapsing backwards into the dirt from the force but embracing it all the same. 

“Moss,” Sanji sobs, the solidity of his lover’s form and his warmth overwhelming. 

“Fuck, Curls, I was-,” Zoro cuts of his words, pressing his face into the crook of the blond’s neck and pulling him tight. “You’re alive. Fuck. You’re alive .” 

Sanji can’t help but clutch him tighter, heartbroken merely by the thought of Zoro being so affected by his plight, just as he’d worried. 

“I’m- I ’m here,” the blond hiccups, twisting until he’s fully curled into the swordsman’s arms. 

Zoro tucks him flush into his chest, his blunt fingernails trailing soft lines around Sanji’s skin and scalp to reassure himself of his livelihood. 

“I’m sorry,” Zoro tells him, “fuck I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

“You found me,” Sanji replies with a grin, grabbing one of Zoro’s hands and pressing a solid kiss to his palm. It tastes of sweat and dirt and he wouldn’t change it for the world, “ you found me, Mossy.” 

Sanji isn’t sure exactly how much time they spend wound around each other in the dirt. The sun dips low until the stars begin to flicker in the sky. He presses his skin into Zoro’s own and seeps the warmth from it with a greed he doesn’t usually foster. Not that the swordsman complains, his own grasp tight around Sanji’s edges and keeping him close. 

Eventually, a question lingers that Sanji can’t ignore. 

“Holbein,” the blond states, “what- where is Holbein?” 

Zoro replies with his cheek pressed against blond locks, his hands secure around the cook’s waist, “is that the farmer?” 

“Yes,” Sanji swallows, “he’s- he-” 

“Caged,” Zoro snarls, “and I know exactly where I’m gonna put’em.” 

The blond swallows thickly, his brow furrowing in hesitation. 

“Love,” Zoro persists, with a kiss to the crown of Sanji’s head, “you are worth every punishment the world can offer. If you would feel guilt for it, you can give it to me. I assure you- I’ll have none of my own.” 

Sanji huffs, tucking himself close into the swordsman’s side and biting back the affection stuck in his throat. 

“Ten minutes, Curls,” Zoro says, shifting to dislodge himself from the blond with gentle hands and that familiar hum of lethality to his movements.

The warmth of the autumn night is more comforting than his place in the ground, and Sanji watches Zoro head towards Holbein’s shed with a satisfying roll of his gut. 

Ten minutes. Zoro says. 

He accomplishes it in five. 

෴⚘᠂ ⚘᠂ ⚘෴⚘᠂ ⚘᠂ ⚘෴

The crew knows something has happened. 

They leave them to their cabin with a sensitivity that’s palpable. Sanji’s not sure if Zoro mentioned it, or maybe just glared at their crewmates enough to get the point across. 

Or maybe someone had seen Zoro carrying Sanji onto the ship; their dirt covered forms heading first towards the bath as the blond kept his face tucked into the swordsman’s chest. 

Robin and Nami gather the stock that’s necessary, filling the pantry and cooler with enough food to last until the next port. No one mentions or questions why Sanji didn’t, nor is he bothered to make meals upon their return. 

Someone other than Zoro takes watch that night, the swordsman planting himself on the mattress with his back to the sheets and letting Sanji climb and curl over him like a koala. The blond falls asleep atop his lover with his knees astride the swordsman's hips and his face squished into the warm skin of his chest; Zoro’s arms snug around his waist.

Sanji awakes a few fretful times in the night, unfortunately taking the lightweight sleeper of his lover with him as he does. 

Most of the time, the blond startles to consciousness with gasping breaths and fingernails digging into tan skin. But the chilling metal tang of seastone from his nightmares is nothing like the smell and warmth of his lover. Zoro’s presence is more akin to a roaring forge, the scent of his steel bringing a sense of protection and comfort.

A few times Sanji finds Zoro already awake. Watching him in the dim moonlight with a strained look on his brow and his fingers digging into the press of Sanji’s waist with a gravity that kind of breaks Sanji’s heart. 

But no matter how they stir, Zoro just guides the blond to find his focus with gentle touches; pulling him back into his arms when he calms. Sanji melting into the pleasant hum of his lover’s chest as Zoro grumbles reassurances that turn into sleepy, unintelligible consonants. 

In the morning, Zoro is pulled away to help with the sails. The swordsman tugging on his boots and griping without any true heat to his words before he leaves the blond with a searing kiss to his lips, despite Sanji’s complaints of morning breath. 

Luffy comes by the first thing after they set sail, his straw hat idly dancing between his fingers as he considers the blond’s place tucked beneath the bedsheets. 

“If you need anything, you know you can just ask,” Luffy tells him, “you know that, right Sanji?”

The admission is enough to put him at ease, the cook already torn between the freedom of the galley and the safety of his bed linens. 

“I know, thank you Captain,” Sanji tells him honestly. 

“And whatever happened,” Luffy continues with a tight look about his features, “did they get what they deserved?” 

At this, Sanji smiles, something softer than murder probably deserved, but he enjoyed it just the same. “Yes,” the blond reassures, “he did.” 

“Good,” Luffy grins, perching his hat securely back on his head as he grins, “just checking.” 

The blond spends the rest of the morning in indulgence, flitting between bundling himself into the soft linens of the bed and starfishing freely across the mattress. Zoro had opened the porthole window before he left to help with the sails and the seabreeze fills the room with the scent of salt and brine, helping to wash away the cloying thoughts of earth and musk. By the sound of footsteps on the deck, Sanji suspects more than one crew member to have come by and sat by his door in quiet check in, and the very thought of it warms his heart. 

Robin comes by in the mid-morning to graciously drop off a warm bowl of oats with chopped strawberries; and Sanji definitely doesn’t cry about it after she leaves. He doesn’t think he’ll be spending the whole day in bed, already feeling his restless energy bundling in his limbs from lazing about. But the haze of panic and dread has abated to less horrendous levels as he’s rested. Safe and doted on by his crew. 

The next time the door unlatches, Sanji is spread out on his front, his toes hanging off the end of the mattress and his forearms dangling off the sides. He cracks an eyelid from a daze and smiles when Zoro’s fond gaze finds him in return. 

The swordsman kneels into the mattress, pulling back the quilt to run his calloused hands across the blond's shoulder blades. Fingertips digging into the tension of his sore muscles.

“Did you want to make lunch?” Zoro asks him, and it’s not pressuring or unkind. Simply a question. 

“Hm,” Sanji replies, turning his head to the side before he replies, “yes. I want to get up and stretch my legs... Feel the breeze and the sun...” He trails off wistfully.  

Zoro grunts in reply, followed by the familiar click of the blond’s lighter wheel. Sanji blinks into focus as Zoro breathes a cigarette to light in his own mouth, getting the cherry warm before he plucks it up and slips it between Sanji’s lips. 

It’s sweet and intimate in a way that melts Sanji’s fluttering heart. The tobacco is warm and rich in his mouth as he tucks the smoke to the corner of his lips with his tongue. 

“You goin soft on me, Mossy?” He teases, turning on his side and curling his form around Zoro’s hips.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The swordsman grins, threading his fingers through the blond’s hair, “m’just making sure you don’t get pissy from withdrawal. This is for my benefit.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Zoro pets through his hair as he slowly nurses his cigarette, enjoying the warmth from the swordsman’s body even though the cool air from the autumn island they’d left behind is already beginning to wane. The contact is reassuring and calming. 

“Moss,” Sanji prompts, reaching the end of his smoke as Zoro relaxes at his side. 

“Hm?”

“On the next island- I don’t want you to leave my goddamn sight.” 

“You askin’ me on a date?” Zoro grins, ruffling the blond’s hair in a way that ruins his part and pisses him off. 

Sanji snorts, butting his forehead into the swordsman’s thigh , “you unromantic piece of shit.”  

"Never said I'd say no." Zoro drawls, "just so long as it's not like, nine in the goddamn morning or something shitty like that." 

"Unbelievable." Sanji deadpans, "Moss, I'm going to kick you out of our bed." 

Zoro smiles, thumbing absently at the back of Sanji's flushed neck before he asks, "our bed?"

"You piece of-!" Sanji does kick him for that one, laughing as Zoro grabs hold of his leg and brings them both tumbling to the floor with the momentum. The blond lands awkwardly in the swordsman's lap as he tries to twist so he can dig his heel into his lover's side; but it's a moot point as they quickly end up in a tangled pile of limbs. 

Zoro grins, pleased with his lapful of blond as Sanji spits curses out between laughter.

"Yes, Marimo, it's our bed," Sanji huffs, squishing Zoro's cheeks with rough affection as the moron laughs. 

“Love you too, Curls.”