Hurts So Good

by liberosis32

Summary:

"Sanji took pleasure in the strength of his legs, the ease of flexibility, his joints a smooth glide beneath his skin, not like they were in the early months of recovery after the rock. He took pleasure in food. In the joy of cooking for the people he loved. In a good lay after a long dry spell. Pain was a part of life, but it wasn’t everything.

Except after Whole Cake Island, things were… different."

OR:

In the aftermath of Whole Cake Island, Sanji develops trauma-related chronic pain, and Zoro makes it his business.

Notes:

I'm endlessly fascinated by the way pain shows up (or doesn't) for different characters at different moments across One Piece. Obviously, I'm using that as an excuse for writing emotional porn =D

...and on an obligatory more serious note, pain of any kind is a highly personal experience and is different for everyone. I am being self-indulgent here by cherry picking from my own experience with chronic pain to lovingly torture Sanji.

Thanks for reading!

It wasn’t like Sanji had never been in pain.

He knew pain. Intimately, he liked to think. He knew the pain of starvation; the agonizing ache of his stomach eating itself, his joints sticking on each other, his muscles wasting away little by little. He knew the pain of panic, of claustrophobia, of an aching neck and shoulders that strained beneath a needlessly heavy metal helmet.

He’d never been able to entirely rid himself of the slouch that had just become habit after his time in his birth family’s dungeons, not even as a self-conscious teenager who’d worried the poor posture habit made him look submissive, like an easy target.

He hadn’t known how to correct it, so he’d had to work around it. Add a scowl and a pack of smokes, and maybe he could pull off a devil-may-care persona instead of an I’m-stuck-like-this look. Story of his life.

Fighting helped. Conditioning the parts of his body that were a bit more under his control. Learning Zeff’s methods, in and beyond the kitchen. Sanji took pleasure in the strength of his legs, the ease of flexibility, his joints a smooth glide beneath his skin, not like they were in the early months of recovery after the rock. He took pleasure in food. In the joy of cooking for the people he loved. In a good lay after a long dry spell. Pain was a part of life, but it wasn’t everything.

Except after Whole Cake Island, things were… different.

“Nothing?” Sanji asked, frowning from where he was leaning up against Chopper’s exam table.

It was early in the morning, before breakfast. Chopper had been on watch, and Sanji had been out of bed, trying to pace away the pain and tension. He had to have pulled something wrong, during the fight against Big Mom. Or maybe he was sick, somehow. All he knew was that each of his joints felt locked up, wrong, and his muscles burned beneath his skin. It wouldn’t go away, no matter how he stretched, or how much he tried to relax. When Chopper spotted Sanji and asked what was wrong, of course the conversation led to Chopper insisting on conducting a full-scale examination, then and there.

“…just because I’m not finding an answer with one round of tests, doesn’t mean there’s nothing there,” Chopper answered magnanimously.

Sanji sighed. That was just great, then. He loved Chopper like he loved all his nakama, but god if he didn’t hate being poked and prodded at under even the best of circumstances.

“I’m sure it’ll work itself out,” Sanji said, sliding off of the exam table and grabbing his jacket. He hadn’t mentioned to Chopper that this was the third night this week he hadn’t been able to sleep because of the pain. He’d taken to just going ahead and getting dressed for the day when an hour of pacing didn’t do anything to help.

“Maybe,” Chopper hedged. He tapped his little hooves together, anxious. “But I’d like to keep an eye on it. Widespread pain with an unidentifiable source could be a sign of something much more serious. When we get to the next island, I’ll—”

“Thanks Chopper,” Sanji cut him off, forcing a smile. “Whatever you say. But I better go start on breakfast, this morning’s menu takes a bit of extra time!”

Chopper looked like he still wanted to protest, but Sanji was out the door before he had a chance.

 

XXX

 

Wano was its own saga of all-consuming insanity.

Sanji still fought, despite the pain. How could he not? It was part of his job, his duty to his crew. He still had a lot to make up for after Whole Cake, for leaving them and forcing Luffy to split up the crew to come after him.

After all, he could only make so many fruity drinks for the ladies, so many slow roasted whole boars for Luffy, so many of each of the rest of the crew members’ favorite treats.

Especially since, after the fight against Kaido was over, for the first time in his life, his cooking wasn’t only being limited by a lack of supplies. He was moving slower now, more gingerly. It hurt to lift his arms, to grip a knife, to turn his head. He still did all those things, of course. But only with gritted teeth and a will of steel.

Gone—at least for now—were the days of humming while he cooked, of letting his mind happily drift into fantasy territory about his lovely Nami-swan and Robin-chan, of getting creative on a whim and trying out brand new, physically complex dishes. He’d taken to padlocking the door while he cooked, under the guise of keeping Luffy out, but really, because he couldn’t bear for anyone to see him struggle with what should have been easy culinary tasks. Shit he had been doing since he was a kid.

There were even times in the middle of meal prep when he simply had to sit down and breath for a few minutes because the pain got to be so much. He couldn’t stand thinking of what Zeff would say. Lazy brat, and that was the best-case scenario. But his spine felt like a row of gears with teeth that no longer lined up. His skull might as well have been glass, ready to shatter into a nauseating headache at the slightest provocation. Too much light, too much sound.

Anything could set it off. Sometimes, it was as easy as a bad dream making him tense up too much in his sleep. He’d wake up barely able to move.

One night, in a dream, he was eight years old again, stuck on the rock, wasting away and hurting, so bad, all over. Only to see a ship in the distance, and realize once it got closer that it was a Germa ship, with his grown brothers leering at him over the port side.

“Help!” his dream self-had called out, voice croaking with the all-too-well-remembered feeling of severe dehydration. Forget running away. He’d gladly trade this godforsaken rock for his old cell in the dungeons; the helmet would be welcome if it meant even a bit of food.

Yonji snorted. “Just die already, you waste of space!”

“Useless twerp!” Ichiji added.

Niji’s voice was firm in its agreement. “Worthless.”

Sanji’s waving arm stilled as he realized his family had only come to mock him. The ship was just passing through; already, it was growing steadily smaller against the horizon.

“Wait!” Sanji tried to call after them, but his voice wouldn’t come. Desperate, he ran as fast as his wasted legs would carry him to the other side of the island. The shitty geezer’s voice would carry further than his. Maybe the ship would turn around if they saw there was someone else there, someone besides Sanji, someone worth keeping around.

This part of a dream like this was usually familiar to the adult Sanji. He expected to crest over the slope of the rock to see Zeff hunched over, newly one-legged, a blood-crusted tourniquet tied just below his right knee.

But in this dream, Sanji made it over the slope, only to see that Zeff wasn’t there. No one was. He was alone on the rock.

At least, that’s what he thought until fear prickled down his spine. Someone was there, standing right behind him. Breathing hot, putrid air against the back of his neck.

Slowly, Sanji turned around.

His breath hitched at the sight of not Zeff, but his mother.

She stood standing skeletal and one-legged before him, blood dripping from the exposed bone beneath her knee, and loose skin hanging off her once-beautiful face. Her eyes were vacant and yellow, jaundiced, far worse than Zeff’s had been in real life during that time. Her gums were black with what looked like scurvy; her lips, the color of wet, moldy bread.

A bony hand closed around the petrified young Sanji’s throat. Despite its wasted tendons, the grip itself was like iron.

His mother shook Sanji hard. When she spoke, her voice was like a wailing swarm of bees. “Why didn’t your father just put you out of your misery?”

Sanji woke up gasping. He couldn’t catch his breath; his heart was in his throat. Where—? The men’s bunkroom. Okay. He was in the men’s bunkroom, on the Sunny.

Luffy, Franky, and Usopp were snoring away. Chopper mumbled something in his sleep. Zoro and Brook’s hammocks were both empty; that just meant it was the rotation of the watch.

Hot tears sprang into Sanji’s eyes, and he pressed the back of his fists against them. “Fuck,” he swore. His skin felt like it was burning. He felt like the swarm of bees he’d heard in his mother’s voice in the nightmare was still there, burrowing in the sensitive inner joints of his elbows, the backs of his knees, the dip of his groin. He hissed. “Fuck—!”

Sanji moved a fist from his eye to muffle the sound of his voice. He swung his legs out from the hammock and fled from the bunk room, unwilling to risk screwing up and waking the others…

…only to run headlong into Zoro, just outside the door.

“Ow!” Zoro yelped, holding a hand to his forehead where they’d collided. “What’s your problem, shit cook?!?”

Sanji couldn’t take this right now. He shoved Zoro back, hoping to hide how genuinely upset he was beneath a guise of anger. “Fuck off, Marimo!”

Unfortunately, Zoro just looked taken aback. “…Cook?”

But Sanji was already storming past, putting as much distance between himself and Zoro as possible. Usually at a time like this he would barricade himself in the kitchen and bake something simple that would keep for tomorrow to calm his restlessness. Cookies, or sweet bread.

Tonight, he opted for the men’s bathrooms instead. He had to do something, anything, to get some physical relief. Hot water. Cold water. Lotions, salves. Whatever.

A week or so before, Sanji had waited until Nami and Robin were both out of the way before sneaking into the women’s bathrooms to steal some of the fancy Epsom salt bath bombs he knew Nami had purchased on a previous shopping trip when he’d carried her bags (he’d replace them as soon as they landed on the next island, before she could notice). They were supposed to be therapeutic, to ease muscle pain and skin irritation. It was the only thing Sanji had been able to think of on the ship that might help that didn’t involve him going to Chopper.

If he went to Chopper again, he knew there’d be no more holding back how bad things were getting, and that absolutely wasn’t an option.

As Sanji drew himself a bath, he shivered as he waited for the tub to fill, nerve pain sparking up and down his arms. It felt like Skypeia, like he was unceasingly being low-level electrocuted. That was at the heart of all of this, really, what made it so agonizing: the constant nature of it all. The pain he was feeling was too similar to that of starvation. Relentless, the sort of thing that made it nearly impossible to think or feel anything else, least of all pleasure.

He still complimented any lady he saw, wherever they went, as was his responsibility as a gentleman. But he hadn’t intentionally sought out, ah, ‘feminine company’ since… well, since before Dressrosa. And any attempts to get himself off since then had proved mostly fruitless, every orgasm muted and weakened by the ebb and flow tide of pain in the rest of his body.

Sanji shook off those thoughts as he lowered himself into the tub, limbs shaking. There was no point. Thinking about women or sex now would only make him more upset.

The warm water lapped against his angry skin, and the pebbly texture of the bath bomb against his ass the back of his thighs was at least a physical reminder that he hadn’t given up, that he was still trying to solve this problem, in his own way. He let out a long, slow breath, sinking up to his ears in the water. It didn’t rid him of the pain by any means, but at least it provided a different sensation to try and focus on.

Of course, that’s when Zoro had to loudly barge in and declare, “You can’t just run off from me like that.”

Sanji wanted to scream. He satisfied himself with a hard clench of his jaw, though of course, that just made the pain in his neck flare again. It took a near extreme effort to keep his voice casual. “And you can’t just barge in on someone’s private bath time, asshole. Get lost, you’re good at that anyway.”

Zoro ignored the jibe and crossed his arms over his broad chest, making absolutely zero move to leave, and seemingly going out of his way to telegraph that to Sanji. “Why are you taking a bath in the middle of the night anyway?”

“I have a mature sense of personal hygiene, unlike some people on this ship.”

“If something’s wrong with you, this is a weird way to deal with it.”

If Zoro was going to pick now to try and have some awkward heart-to-heart, Sanji would fucking kill him. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. “Says the man who practically trains himself into an early grave to deal with anyone on the ship getting so much as a paper cut. Fuck off, Marimo.”

Zoro was silent, and briefly, Sanji dared to hope that he had actually left.

Of course, the hope was in vain. “I notice you, when I’m on night watch,” Zoro said. Apparently, he’d decided to press forward with whatever bullshit he’d come to say. “I can see everything on the deck easily from the crow’s nest. You always come out around three or four in the morning, looking like you want to claw your skin off. It’s been that way ever since you—” Zoro cut himself off and redirected so seamlessly, Sanji almost didn’t notice. “Ever since the two teams reunited in Wano. Maybe before then, and I just wasn’t there to see it.”

The bath water was starting to grow cold, and with it, any modicum of relief Sanji had been feeling began to dissipate. “You should mind your own business.”

Zoro tilted his chin up. “The wellbeing of this crew is my business.”

Sanji rolled his eyes, and impulsively splashed a wave of water in Zoro’s direction, splattering it across the bathroom’s marble floor and giving himself an annoying mess to clean up later. “Self-important much?” A fresh zinger of pain shot up its neck from the motion of turning his head. He inhaled sharply, and tried to keep his voice from sounding too strained. “Look, I’m dealing with something personal. Meaning I’ve got it under control, on my own. Just go to bed, okay?”

When no noise of Zoro leaving followed Sanji’s statement, he risked the pain of twisting to face his crewmate more directly. Zoro hadn’t moved an inch.

“You’re literally making things worse with your presence,” Sanji said. “Please leave.”

A look of uncertainly flashed across Zoro’s eye, fast enough that Sanji almost missed it. With an expression on his face like he was staring down his own execution, Zoro said, “’Personal’ and ‘have it under control.’ Like how you had that shit with Big Mom and your family ‘under control’?”

“There not my family,” Sanji snapped back immediately. “And who told you about them?”

“The Sunny’s a big ship, but we still all live in pretty close quarters, it’s not hard to pick things up. Besides, aren’t we supposed to be nakama? What’s so secret about your family anyway?”

“Not my family—”

“Then the motherfuckers who screwed with your wanted poster, or whatever!” Zoro burst out. “How am I supposed to know what to call them when you won’t even talk about what happened back there? I’m still fucking pissed at you, by the way.”

“Yeah? I couldn’t tell,” said Sanji, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Zoro looked like he wanted to say something back with equal bite, but he seemed to swallow whatever words had been his first instinct, and instead, pinched the bridge of his nose and slowly exhaled. “We don’t have to talk about it. You’re right, it’s your business. What is my business is whether you’re physically hurt and hiding an injury. I have to know how much I can expect to rely on you in a fight.”

Sanji bristled. “Of course, you can rely on me in a fight!”

“Can I?” Zoro said. “Because I’m not stupid, Cook, I see the way you’ve been acting, and I’ve been seriously injured enough times myself to know. You’re in pain, and it’s not getting better, and you’re trying to hide it. Why?”

Sanji… had not expected Zoro to have his number like that.

The bubbles in the bathwater had died down enough that his nakedness would be visible if Zoro were to come even a step closer. They’d seen each other in varying states of undress dozens of times before, but never in the past had Sanji felt so uncomfortably exposed.

“Pass me that towel, would you?” Sanji nodded towards the rack by the door.

Zoro obliged. Sanji took a deep breath, then called upon what little strength he had left this late at night after an exhausting day and an even more exhausting attempt at sleep. He stood up, limbs shaking, nerves buzzing, and tied the towel around his waist. Mentally, at least, that helped him feel a bit better.

“It is a medical thing,” Sanji admitted, not looking at Zoro as he brushed past him to the counter area where he’d discarded his pajamas. “I’ve already talked to Chopper about it.”

“What did he say?”

“Still not any of your business.”

“Fine, it’s not, but I still want to know,” Zoro insisted. “I don’t…” he let out a frustrated breath. “I like knowing where everyone in the crew is, what they’re doing, how they’re doing. I hate to admit it, but it fucked with my head when you left. I just need to know that you’re okay.”

Sanji could’ve laughed, if he wasn’t already so upset. “This is weirdly honest for you, Marimo.”

Zoro didn’t so much as shrug. He just kept staring at Sanji with that too-serious expression.

Sanji sighed. He turned his attention to slipping back into his pajamas, not looking at Zoro as he spoke. “Chopper doesn’t know. He said something about running more tests a while ago, but then everything happened in Wano, and it all just kind of slipped through the cracks. It won’t affect the rest of the crew, I’m managing fine on my own anyway.”

“Managing fine with what?” Zoro insisted.

Sanji rolled his eyes. “I just fucking said Chopper doesn’t know, and neither do I. It’s just…” his throat went suddenly tight. “Pain. Pain all over, in my joints, on my skin, in my head. There’s no obvious cause, and it never stops.” He shook his head, willing away the devastated feeling that welled up inside of him. “It’s just some bullshit I have to manage until it goes away.”

Even as Sanji was saying it, though, the thought of the pain ever eventually relenting felt further away than ever. In his life, whenever heavy shit was going down, the number one, tried-and-tested strategy he’d used to make it through even the worst things was the knowledge that nothing lasted forever. No fight, no torture, no heartbreak. Every bad thing eventually came to an end, just like every good thing. According to karma, it should have been an even trade off.

But what if this pain didn’t end? What if he was going to stay stuck like this forever?

Sanji hadn’t talked about his situation to anyone since that first day of examinations with Chopper, and he’d thought he’d done a damn good job of keeping the problem to himself. After all, no one wanted to hear him whining. That’s what Zeff had said too, when he was recovering from the loss of his leg, and Sanji, young and raw and uncertain, kept trying to wait on him and bring him things. It was absurd to be talking about this now to Zoro, of all people.

Yet when Sanji stood upright, dressed again for sleep he wasn’t certain he’d be able to return to, Zoro was staring at him with an expression that wasn’t pity or disdain. If Sanji had to guess, he would say it was something closer to understanding.

“…Marimo?” Sanji said.

“I…” Zoro’s voice came out in a croak. Sanji saw him visibly shake off whatever complicated thing he was feeling and settle into a look of determination. “I’ll help.”

That was the absolute last thing Sanji was expecting to hear.

This time, he did laugh. He couldn’t help it. “You? How?” Then, when Zoro’s resolve didn’t immediately dissipate into bickering, Sanji narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course. Don’t think you’re going to use this to get one up on me, shitty swordsman.”

Zoro shook his head. “It’s not about that.”

“Then enlighten me. I’d like to go back to bed so I can try and get at least a little sleep before I have to get up for real for breakfast prep.”

Zoro averted his eyes. “It’s… personal.”

Sanji would’ve kicked him for being an ass if his hips hadn’t still been aching. He needed to save his capacity for real fights, right now. “Don’t be a fucking hypocrite, Marimo, I spilled my shit to you. I’m not asking for your help, I don’t even want it, so what gives?”

As the words left Sanji’s mouth, he realized with discomfort that they weren’t entirely true. He wasn’t asking for Zoro’s help, but despite himself, it felt weirdly satisfying just to acknowledge that something was going on with him and to be met with anything resembling concern.

It also made his stomach burn with worry at having said too much, but whatever. Zoro was the one pressing for details, after all. Sanji couldn’t be blamed for obliging him.

Zoro opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it, apparently realizing that, no shit, Sanji was right. He sighed. “This would be a longer conversation than you’d have time for if you’re trying to go back to bed.”

Sanji was no stranger to conversational evasion tactics. His interest piqued even more. And if he was being honest, it wasn’t like he was likely to actually be able to get back to sleep anyway. “Try me.”

 

XXX

 

The tea was a dark brew, de-caffeinated because of the late hour, but strong.

“No booze?” Zoro asked, drumming his fingers on the table as Sanji slid into the seat across from him and set down two mugs.

“Not for your ass,” Sanji said.

Zoro gave him a forlorn look. Sanji sighed, got back up, and brought over a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. He eyeballed a shot into Zoro’s mug, hesitated, then topped himself off as well. It wasn’t like he could feel much worse.

“Okay,” Sanji said. “You have your drink. Talk.”

Zoro took his time with chugging too much of the tea (who chugged hot tea, even if it was spiked with alcohol?), then nodded, as if bracing himself.

“Okay,” Zoro said at last. “You, uh. Remember what happened with Kuma.”

“The whole, blast everyone off separately across the world thing? Yeah, a bit tough to forget.”

“Before that.”

Ah. Sanji nodded slowly. “Thriller Bark.”

“Right.” Zoro drew in a shaky breath. “So, after you were knocked out, Kuma made me this deal. If I took on all of Luffy’s pain, he would leave and spare the rest of the crew.”

Against his will, Sanji thought back to the state he’d come across Zoro in after finally regaining consciousness. Drenched in his own blood, the ground stained with it across a ten-foot radius, the whites of his eyes pink from popped vessels. Nothing at all, indeed.

Sanji felt weirdly uncomfortable, in an emotional sense. The physical agony was still there, of course, ever-present. But for the moment, not his singular focus. “So, pain. You’re no stranger to it. But you made it out of there okay in the end.”

He said this almost to reassure himself.

Zoro took another sip of his drink, face twisting. “You ever have one of those dreams that feels like it lasts longer than it actually does?”

Sanji’s mind flashed to the rotting image of his mother that had appeared in his most recent nightmare, the one that had started this whole cursed evening. “Sure. Dreams can feel like they last hours, when really, the brain is only active like that for a few minutes.”

Zoro shook his head. “I’m talking about a dream that last years. Like, a dream where you have a whole other life, you go through years as one person, and then suddenly you wake up and you’re back where you started, like nothing had happened at all.”

Sanji was beginning to have quite a chip on his shoulder over the words ‘nothing happened.’

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream like that,” he said slowly.

Zoro’s shoulders slumped minutely. “Then you probably won’t get what I mean with this, but what Kuma did to me was… like that.”

“Like you were in a dream that lasted for years?”

Zoro seemed to be choosing his words carefully. For once, thinking before he spoke. “Taking Luffy’s pain wasn’t like it would have been taking the pain of someone without a devil fruit. At least that’s what I’ve figured after trying to wrap my head around it. I thought Kuma would throw some broken bones my way, that’s what I was braced for. But I’m not made of rubber. And it felt like I was the one who’d stretched out every limb in a fight against a warlord. Like every inch of my skin was splitting, and then splitting again.” His eyes had taken on a faraway look, like he’d forgotten Sanji was there. Sanji’s hands were still around his mug, eyes fixed on Zoro. “I forgot who I was. I forgot about my dream. It was like I was pain. It wasn’t until later that I understood that it wasn’t just the pain Luffy felt in that one fight.”

“You’re telling me,” Sanji started slowly, “That when Kuma did that to you, you felt nineteen years’ worth of pain? All at once?”

“Kind of?” Zoro shook off his distant look and focused on Sanji again. “That, but it felt like it lasted nineteen years. I was totally caught off guard when you finally showed up and snapped me out of it. For a minute, I couldn’t remember who you were. Who anyone on the crew was.” Zoro cracked a smile. “How’s that for pain, huh?”

Sanji saw red. He inhaled sharply. “It’s not a competition, shithead!”

Zoro sat back and gave him a look like what the fuck? “I never said it was! I just mean that I get it, being in pain and not being able to escape, it sucks!”

“Yeah, no shit!” Sanji stood up abruptly, his chair screeching behind him and his hips smarting. “But you’re telling me that you were in so much pain you hallucinated nineteen years of torture, then forgot who everyone was, then just… just… up and set sail again off towards Fishman Island like everything was normal? What the fuck, Zoro?!?”

Zoro shrugged. “It seemed like the best way to handle things at the time.”

Sanji dragged a hand down his face. “Of course, you would say that.”

“You got a problem with my pain management strategy?”

“Being in agony and not telling your friends or doing shit about it isn’t pain management, dumbass, that’s just being in pain!”

Zoro snapped his fingers and pointed at Sanji. “Now who’s being the hypocrite?”

Sanji inhaled a long, harsh breath. Without another word, he strode out of the galley and let the door slam behind him. He went immediately to the railing at the side of the ship and tried to light a cigarette. It took him a couple of tries; his hands kept shaking, and the joints of his knuckles were painfully stiff. When he finally had his vice of choice in hand, he sucked in a blissful hit, and glared off at the horizon, which was just beginning to pink with the dawn.

So much for trying to sleep again. On top of his own issues, now he was going to be stuck fretting over Zoro, and feeling guilty that he hadn’t known about what his crewmate had gone through sooner. He also felt an ugly, shitty type of way about how even though he’d said pain wasn’t a competition, Zoro had somehow managed to go through what had felt like almost two decades of torture without so much as blinking afterwards, while here Sanji was, crying over a bad dream and coping by drawing himself a fancy bath with stolen Epsom salts.

Fuck Zoro, what a piece of shit. Way to take a man and kick him when he was down. Stupid bastard, offering his life up like that when no one had fucking asked him to, anyway.

What was Sanji supposed to do with this?

Behind him, he heard the door to the galley swing open and shut. Heavy footsteps followed him to the railing. He knew without even tapping into Haki that it was Zoro.

“I didn’t say all that to upset you more,” Zoro said, leaning against the railing beside Sanji. They were close enough that Sanji could feel the heat coming off his shoulder. The cool morning sea breeze brought the scent of salt and something else, something metallic and very specifically Zoro, to his nose. Sanji hated that the scent was oddly comforting. “I just… wanted you to know that I understand. Pain you can’t figure out how to stop can get under a person’s skin in a way a random stab wound or head injury—stuff that heals—doesn’t.”

The smoke from Sanji’s last drag drifted away like a ghost in the air. His voice was flat. “Well, great to know I have a commiseration buddy.”

“I meant it when I said I would help.”

“I’m sure you did, but like I said, there’s no help for it. It just is what it is.”

Zoro hesitated. “I know you think that, but would you at least let me try?”

“Why?” Sanji asked again, this time not suspicious at all. Just exhausted. Hurting.

Zoro studied him, brow pinched. Sanji felt a strange surge of heat when he realized how close they were, and how soft Zoro’s voice was. He felt like his skin was splitting in two, like he wanted to pull away but also wanted desperately to be drawn in further.

“I don’t like the idea of someone I care about hurting. Can’t stand it, actually, not after Kuma.” Zoro said at last. “If it makes it easier on your end, just think of this as something I’m doing for myself and you’re humoring me.”

“Why should I?” Sanji’s voice was rough. He didn’t even know why he was still protesting at this point.

“Because I’m asking,” said Zoro, as serious and dedicated as ever. God, Sanji hated him. “C’mon, Cook. Please?”

Sanji closed his eyes and inhaled another breath of smoke. He blew it away from Zoro, out over the sea, where it would soon dissipate into nothingness behind them.

“Alright, Marimo, I’ll bite,” said Sanji, already regretting it. “Tell me what you had in mind.”

 

XXX

 

Sanji was going to kill Zoro.

They were on a summer island in an upscale, tourist-y port. Souvenir shops and duty-free cosmetic fare and alcohol abounded. Sanji had initially planned to sneak off the boat by himself to restock, mostly because he didn’t want anyone asking questions if he had trouble carrying as much back as he usually did all at once. But then Nami had knocked on the door of the galley and asked if he would accompany her and Robin for shopping, and who was he to say no? He needed to replace the Epsom salts anyway.

The issue with that, though, was hiding his situation from Nami and Robin. Nami was focused on getting a good deal, as always, in that stunning way of hers. But Robin never really left perception-mode, and while Sanji would usually enjoy the rare moments of having her attention, now things were a bit more complicated.

“You don’t have to carry all of that, you know,” Robin said, while Nami argued with the shopkeeper of the boutique about when, exactly, a holiday sale had supposedly expired.

Sanji shifted the weight of the shopping bags in his hands. This should have been nothing. He never let Robin or Nami carry their own bags, it was a point of pride for him. And if he couldn’t do it, then Nami probably wouldn’t ask him along anymore.

Sanji forced a wide smile, even as the muscles in his shoulders screamed. A single bead of sweat dripped down his neck, snaking around the divots of his spine. “What do you mean, my dear Robin? I could never ask a lady as lovely as yourself to lift a finger for something as simple as carrying a few shopping bags!”

Robin gave Sanji a knowing smile that he loved (of course, Robin’s smiles were always gorgeous beyond compare!) but also hated just a little bit. “Alright. But the offer stands, Cook-san.”

Sanji immediately squashed the fantasy of relief that flew through his mind of Robin using her devil fruit to carry the bags, as easy as anything. He made himself smile wider. “Robin-chan is so considerate, but there’s really no need.”

Robin didn’t press the issue further, and Sanji breathed a sigh of relief, even as shooting pains burned up and down his arms.

When they had finally made it to every store Nami intended to take them to, and she was satisfied with her bargains, it was time to head back to the ship. For the first time in years, Sanji’s legs felt weak beneath him. He had to sit down, or he was going to risk collapsing in front of the ladies and making an ass of himself.

“Will you fine ladies be alright going back to the ship on your own?” Sanji asked, shifting his weight. He couldn’t keep the pressure on one hip for too long. “I have a few more stops to make.”

Nami and Robin had been walking slightly in front of him. Nami turned and knit her brow. “Why didn’t you say something? We can go with you, if you want, I’ll always fight for a bargain.”

“No, no!” Sanji said, a bit too fast. He tried to take the abrasiveness out of his voice. “There’s really no need. I wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time.”

Now Nami looked concerned. “It’s really no problem, Sanji—”

“Cook’s helping me with something,” Zoro voice said, coming out of fucking nowhere.

Sanji couldn’t see over the top of the bags weighing down his arms and shoulders, but it sounded like Zoro was closing in from behind them. Haki confirmed this. Had Zoro been following them? Fucking, why?

“Helping you with what?” Nami sounded suspicious.

“Nothing—” Sanji started.

“None of your business,” Zoro said.

Flames danced before Sanji’s eyes. On instinct, he raised a leg and spun around, intending to kick Zoro upside the head for such a rude comment to one of his lovely ladies. Before he could make contact, though, an agonizing muscle spasm knotted in his hamstring, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Zoro averted the kick by literally catching Sanji’s ankle. Incidentally, the motion also kept Sanji from toppling over completely, but that was beside the point.

How fucking humiliating.

“We’ll be back in a couple hours,” Zoro said with finality, while Sanji seethed and resisted the urge to clutch at his leg in absolute agony.

“Well, okay,” Nami said after hesitating. “But don’t you two dare start fighting and damage any of those bags!”

“You have my word, Nami-swan!” Sanji said weakly, braced against Zoro’s grip.

It wasn’t until the girls had disappeared around the corner that Zoro finally released Sanji’s ankle. Sanji couldn’t help sinking to the ground, the shopping bags falling to the wayside. Numbly, he started putting them back upright and dusting them off, so that Nami wouldn’t notice any damage. The items inside were completely safe and clean, of course. Sanji wouldn’t break his promise that easily.

“Having some trouble, Cook?” Zoro said.

Sanji looked up. Zoro’s massive form was blocking out the sun. Sanji rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. What’s the point in embarrassing me like that anyway?”

“Wasn’t trying to embarrass you. The opposite, actually,” said Zoro. “You looked like you were about to keel over, and it turns out I was right.”

“Don’t tell me you followed us here.” Sanji pretended to still be re-situating the shopping bags. He wasn’t ready to stand up yet.

Zoro shrugged. “I have to look out for the crew.”

Which Sanji interpreted as, I have to look out for our useless cook, who can’t even walk around with a few shopping bags without collapsing.

A low rage burned in Sanji’s gut. Ever since that night in the baths, Zoro had been doing shit like this. When Sanji was meant to be on watch, Zoro would show up to take over early. When Sanji had a thick cut of meat to deal with, Zoro would show up with his swords. When they were in battle, and Sanji was gritting his teeth through unbearable pain, knowing the cost of not showing it was an even more agonizing next 24-hours, Zoro would show up to cut Sanji’s opponent down.

Sanji complained every time, of course. That was his watch, and his kitchen and his fight. But Zoro brushed off Sanji’s complaints like they were completely inconsequential, not even showing a shred of remorse.

Sanji had had enough.

“I’m not a fucking invalid, you know,” Sanji bit out, not looking at Zoro as he righted himself. “Pain doesn’t mean anything as long as the job can still get done, it’s shitty of you to treat me like I’m suddenly made of glass.”

Zoro just scoffed. “It’s not as if you’re going to take care of yourself.”

“And what would you know about that?” Sanji said. He was still facing away from Zoro, debating whether he could manage to pick up the bags again and keep moving without being obvious about the toll it was taking.

“I’m not the one buckling under a dozen shopping bags,” Zoro said. “I take care of myself just fine. You, on the other hand, couldn’t take care of yourself right in a million years.”

“When you said you would help, inserting yourself into every part of my day and then insulting me wasn’t what I had in mind.”

The smirk was obvious in Zoro’s voice. “It’s exactly what I had in mind.”

Sanji turned around. “I knew you were shitty, Marimo, but this is a new level. Get lost, we’re done here.” He ignored the buzzing of his nerves and bent down to begin collecting the shopping bags once again.

“What’d I say?” Zoro, the bastard, sounded genuinely confused.

Sanji wasn’t going to spell it out for him. If Zoro didn’t already know—which Sanji was sure he did—he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of playing his game and providing an answer.

It was stupid of Sanji to have assumed Zoro might have been genuine that night in the baths. Whatever had happened with Kuma aside, it was obvious that Zoro saw Sanji as someone too weak to take care of himself. Sanji should never have opened up to him in the first place.

“Hey. Hey,” Zoro said, catching up quickly when Sanji started walking away, arms once again laden with bags. “I wasn’t trying to get one over on you. I meant that we always insult each other anyway, so I wasn’t thinking this would make things any different.”

“Just leave me alone,” Sanji said, shouldering his way past to press ahead. It was high afternoon, the sun sweltering down, and Sanji was sweating uncomfortably in his suit on top of the pain he was already dealing with. It didn’t matter. He would get the bags back to the ship, no problem, without Zoro’s help. So, what, if he wouldn’t be able to sleep later?

“Fine, maybe you can take care of yourself,” Zoro called after him, voice lackadaisical. “But you sure as shit can’t seem to let anyone else take care of you.”

Where did this bastard get off?!?

Before Sanji knew what he was doing, he’d dropped the bags again and took three long strides backwards to get right up in Zoro’s face. “You’d better stop running your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

“Then you admit I’m right.”

“I’m not admitting anything!”

“Fine. Prove it.”

Sanji balked. “What, that I can let someone take care of me? You’re done stealing my opponents in a fight, shitty swordsman, if that’s what you’re getting at!”

“What I’m getting at is that you’re way more fucked up inside than I thought if you’re going to throw a fit over someone offering to help with a few bags,” Zoro said. “It wasn’t a big deal until you made it one.”

It stung to realize that Zoro was just a tiny bit right. “That’s not how it is.”

“Seems like that’s absolutely how it is.”

“Wanna fucking bet?”

That’s how they ended up in the hotel room, with Sanji splayed out on his stomach, teeth gritted, and Zoro situated behind him, holding a jar of menthol massage oil.

 

XXX

 

“You’re absolutely not going to make it through this whole thing without storming out,” Zoro said, the cocky bastard.

“Yeah, if you keep talking,” Sanji groused, pressing his face further into the pillow and trying to ignore the mix of discomfort that came from having his neck at an awkward angle, alongside the unanticipated fluttering in his stomach at the position he’d found himself in.

Well, put himself in, more like. Sanji really needed to start thinking before he spoke.

“Afraid my voice is gonna get you all hot and bothered, love cook?”

Sanji scoffed, despite the fluttering momentarily intensifying. “Don’t go making this weirder than it already is.”

Zoro just hummed, noncommittal, and things grew quiet between them.

Sanji gnawed on the inside of his cheek, wishing he could smoke. The quiet was almost worse. By the time they’d dropped off the bags at the ship, splitting the load between them in the name of their bet-based truce, it was late afternoon. When they made it back to the hotel and got checked in, golden-hour glow was already drifting in through the sheer curtains, inviting a lazy end-of-the-day warmth. They were on an upper floor, so it wasn’t as if anyone was going to be looking in from the outside, but Sanji’s anxiety was still piqued. This would be a strange situation for any of their crewmembers to find them in together.

Sanji swallowed at the click of Zoro opening the bottle of oil, shortly followed by the squelching noise of a hand scooping out a generous amount of the substance.

He should say something. This was weird, wasn’t it? But if he did, Zoro would just chalk it up to further evidence that Sanji couldn’t handle being cared for by someone else. Sanji wasn’t that insecure, Zoro could fuck right off.

He tightened his jaw and resolved to bear with this absurdity. A feat that became substantially harder when Zoro’s hand, cool and slick with the menthol oil, smeared across his back. It left a pleasant tingling sensation behind it, and Sanji couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” Zoro said. It wasn’t a question.

“Fuck off,” Sanji muttered, forcing his muscles to stay still. Of course, his body would pick one more way to betray him.

Zoro didn’t say anything more after that, and the silence fell over them once again. Sanji tried to keep his mind completely blank as Zoro’s hands moved over him. They didn’t press too intensely at first, instead just rubbing the oil gently over his back, stroking the valleys between his spine and shoulder blades. His touch was surprisingly light. Sanji would’ve thought someone like Zoro would’ve been clumsier at this, or would’ve tried for all the pressure all at once.

“I’m not going to break, you know,” Sanji said, shifting against the mattress. Zoro’s touch was so light, in fact, it left Sanji feeling almost ticklish.

“Be patient, Cook.”

“For what?”

“This is how you do it,” Zoro said. He switched things up, moving from light, wide stroking to gripping and pressing various tracts of muscle.

Sanji sucked in a breath. Zoro’s hands immediately stilled.

“Too much?” Zoro said.

“N-no,” said Sanji, willing the muscles that had tensed up to relax again. Zoro still seemed to be waiting for something, though. “You can keep going.”

Zoro returned to what he’d been doing. The gentle kneading grew in pressure as Zoro moved from one muscle to another, stretching and pressing as he went. “You have to warm up the muscles first,” Zoro said, voice low enough that he could’ve been talking to himself. “If you just get right to the intense stuff, you’ll end up hurting yourself worse.”

Zoro pressed a thumb right into the trigger point at the top of Sanji’s right shoulder blade; it was one of the places that bothered him the most, constantly twinged from the necessary repetitive motion of wielding a kitchen knife. The trigger point clicked with a threatened release. It was closer than Sanji had ever come to getting it to calm down on his own, given its position, just out of reach from his hands unless he was to further strain his neck.

Just a bit more…

“Go back,” Sanji said despite himself, when Zoro’s hands drifted away.

But Zoro didn’t protest, or make fun of him. His thumb found the trigger point again, and pressed harder this time. The muscle trembled underneath him, the fascia clicking again. Sanji inhaled through his teeth. Zoro pressed down a bit more intensely the next time, and all of a sudden, the trigger point gave way, releasing a swath of endorphins through the associated bundle of nerves: further down Sanji’s spine, up his neck, into his arm.

“Fuck,” Sanji swore, pressing his eyes closed as the first true relief he’d felt since the mystery pain had overtaken him fireworked through his upper body.

Zoro gave a satisfied hum in response before moving on to the opposite side, as if he hadn’t just worked a quiet little miracle.

“Since when have you known how to do this?” Sanji finally managed, voice shaky.

He felt Zoro shrug through the shifting of his arms. “Since I was a kid. It’s easier if you have someone helping you for the places that are tough to reach, but when I was at the dojo, they used to invite doctors from the nearby village to talk to us about anatomy. Part of it was to teach us where to avoid striking so we didn’t kill anyone on accident. Part of it was to learn about our own bodies. How to maintain them, red flags to look out for. How to heal.”

Zoro went silent. Sanji got the impression he maybe had more to say, but it wasn’t like he was going to press the issue.

“Must’ve not absorbed much more than whatever this is, then,” Sanji joked. His words were strained with the pleasure-pain of Zoro’s wrists kneading into his lower back. “You’re always fucking injured.”

“I know my limits,” Zoro said, unthreatened.

“I’ll quote you on that someday when you push too hard and break your own damn neck, or something equally as idiotic.”

Zoro’s hands stopped moving altogether, calloused palms resting on Sanji’s hips.

Sanji got the distinct feeling he’d said something wrong. “Marimo?”

“Accidents happen,” Zoro said, too casual, as he began massaging again. “It’s no one’s fault when they do.” His voice darkened. “Definitely not idiotic.”

On that last word, Zoro’s thumbs dug into the tender flesh just below Sanji’s ribcage a little too hard, forcing another sharp breath from Sanji. “Whatever you say,” Sanji said. It seemed better to just drop it, especially now that Zoro’s ministrations were getting more intense.

He focused instead on just breathing through the movements and relaxing with intention. Turning this way and that, whenever Zoro gave him a rare specific instruction. His mind and body became malleable as he fell further into sync with Zoro, almost the same way they did fighting side by side in battle.

It felt too soon when Zoro finally sat back on his haunches and declared, “Well, damn. Guess you win, shit cook.”

Sanji opened his eyes, mind groggy. The room had grown dark with the onset of evening. He looked over his shoulder and saw the outline of Zoro, still kneeling on the bed, against the moonlight bleeding through the curtains. “What time is it?”

Zoro shrugged. “Dunno. Probably time to get back, though.”

Sanji’s thoughts were slow catching up at first, but then all at once, his brain clicked into gear. He sat up in a hurry. “Shit. Dinner!”

Sanji got dressed again as quickly as he could manage. His muscles felt looser than they had in ages, and some of the fire beneath his skin had finally subsided. It wasn’t until he and Zoro were out of the hotel and well on their way back towards the ship, the lamp light on main street guiding their path, that it began to dawn on Sanji what Zoro had just done for him.

He glanced at Zoro out of the corner of his eyes. Zoro was unbothered, strolling alongside Sanji like he didn’t really give a shit one way or another about the intimacy they’d just shared.

“No one on the crew needs to know about today,” Sanji said, but the declaration was followed by an annoying twinge of guilt.

His body still hurt, but for the first time in ages, he felt like he could breath, could think. The evening had a strange clarity about it, the lines of each building distinct against the dark sky. The scent of smoked meat coming from the street carts made Sanji’s mouth water, and the cool breeze felt silky against his skin. Sanji was able to take in the world again in a way he hadn’t even registered missing until now, and it was all thanks to that shitty swordsman.

When Sanji’s attention wasn’t swallowed by pain, stark beauty stood out all around him.

Even Zoro looked beautiful like this, in his strange way. His skin glowed golden in the lamplight, and his eyes were as dark as the night itself. Sanji could feel the ghost of Zoro’s strong hands roaming about his body. In a flash of fantasy, he wondered what it would feel like if Zoro—

No, absolutely not. Ridiculous. He’d gotten a massage from a crewmate. Big fucking deal.

“Not their business,” Zoro agreed, his eyes fixed in front of him. He cracked a smile. “Personal, right?”

Sanji’s throat went dry. “Right.”

 

XXX

 

There were good days and bad days.

Some mornings, Sanji woke up feeling almost normal. His body would bend and twist to his will, breakfast would be a cinch, and by the time the dishes were done, he would be standing by the ship’s railing, enjoying a mid-morning smoke. Tobacco and salty sea breeze, mixing with the leftover smells of bacon grease and coffee lingering from the galley. A happy crew, launching into whatever each of them would be doing that day to further their goals.

It was on those days that Sanji usually tried to get more of his labor-intensive work done, the kind that meant bending and lifting to take stock of their rations, and meal-plan for the next week. When he could, he would also prep ingredients that would take more time on a bad day.

And if he did all this while looking out the window above the sink, where Zoro was visible training in the distance, golden muscles straining under the sun, well, it was just a coincidence.

Other mornings, Sanji had to fight himself to get out of bed. It wasn’t comfy laying down, but it could be near agonizing getting up. These days usually came when there was a change in the atmospheric pressure, when he’d overexerted himself the day before, or oddly, when he’d let his emotions get the better of him in one way or another. A part of Sanji was tempted to ask Nami about the weather thing, but that would mean divulging more about his situation than he was comfortable with. It was already bad enough the Marimo had guessed accurately.

What would happen if the rest of the crew were to find out that slowly but surely, his body was betraying him? In Sanji’s worst moments, he envisioned Luffy resolutely telling him that he should disembark for good on the next island, that he would just be more of a burden than he already was on the crew if he continued with them. It was almost a guarantee that after these anxiety spirals, Sanji’s pain would flare.

Zoro was always good at getting lost, but damn, if he didn’t have some sort of crazy internal compass for directing him right to Sanji during his worst moments of pain.

“You can come find me, you know,” Zoro said, one day when they were tucked away together in the pantry, with Zoro’s broad hands once again roaming about Sanji’s back.

It was after dinner, when Sanji should have been long-done with the dishes, but had instead been going at a snail’s pace due to shooting pains that traveled down his arm into his fingers, making it so he could barely grip whatever plate he was holding. He didn’t want to break anything, but he couldn’t bear to ask for help either, which meant he was just going to have to be stuck here until everything was done, pain or no pain.

Zoro, predictably, had shown up to ask for post-training booze, and had somehow just known from Sanji’s posture that he was struggling. From there, he’d barely had to try to convince Sanji to follow him into the pantry, out of a desperate hope that maybe he’d be able to find even a modicum of relief.

Sanji huffed. He kept his eyes fixed on the rows of non-perishable canned goods tucked away amongst the shelves, while Zoro’s thumbs pressed up against the tight skin at the base of his skull. “I’m always having to come find you, shithead.”

“I mean when you’re not feeling good. It’s no trouble for me to do this.”

Sanji didn’t quite buy that. There was no way Zoro wouldn’t rather be training, drinking, or napping right now. “If you say so, Marimo.”

Zoro’s hands stopped, laying right now the curves of where Sanji’s neck became his shoulders. It would be so easy for him to close that strong grip around Sanji’s throat, but instead, his thumb gently stroked circles on the little bundle of nerves above Sanji’s collar bone. Not pressing, just… petting. Sanji drew in a shaky breath.

“I mean it, Cook,” Zoro said, as serious as Sanji had ever heard him. “Let me take care of you.”

Sanji’s body tensed. He shrugged off Zoro’s hand and turned around. “What exactly is it you want from me, here?”

Zoro just frowned at him. “I just said.”

“To take care of me?” Sanji scoffed. “Come on, you can’t expect me to believe you’re doing all this without expecting some sort of trade off.”

Zoro’s shoulders fell forward. “I thought we were past this, Cook.”

“You’re the one who keeps dodging the question,” Sanji said. “You’re good at massages, sure, I’ll give you that one. I appreciate everything you’ve done so far, so thanks. But there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

At that, Zoro just looked confused. “You give away food all the time for free?”

Sanji wanted to tear his hear out. Maybe feeling intentional pain could numb the sting of pain he couldn’t avoid. “C’mon, shitty Marimo, I’m not going to ask again. What. Do. You. Want?”

Zoro’s eyes darted back and forth. “I don’t…”

“You’re always talking about making me feel good.” Sanji took a distinct step into Zoro’s space, forcing him to back up against the shelves. “You want me to make you feel good to, right?”

The words dripped like bitter poison from Sanji’s lips, and before he knew what his body was doing, he reached out and gripped Zoro’s cock through his pants.

Ha! Zoro was already half-hard, just from being the one to do all the touching. And not even direct touching; he hadn’t forced Sanji to undress, or gone anywhere near his own cock or ass, either. He’d been completely respectful. And yet—

“Cook.” Zoro was looking down at him with a pitying expression. He gripped Sanji’s wrist and moved it firmly away from his groin. “Stop.”

Sanji inhaled sharply.

The moment that passed between them could have lasted an eternity. When it did end, a wave of shame so intense Sanji thought it could very well sweep him off the ship and into the sea rose up from deep inside of him. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to sob. A first good move was putting as much distance between himself and Zoro as possible, though, so he gave Zoro a light shove into the shelves and fled the pantry.

Sanji’s face burned. His nerves sent stinging pinpricks up and down his arms. The dishes would have to wait until the morning. Assuming he didn’t throw himself overboard before then.

Zoro caught up to him before he could leave the kitchen, though. A strong hand grabbed Sanji above the elbow and pulled him back.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!?” Sanji batted his free hand against Zoro’s chest. He should’ve just kicked Zoro away, like normal, but the shitty truth was, he didn’t really want Zoro to let him go. He hated it, hated himself, for wanting Zoro to draw him back in, to keep offering him his touch, his comfort, even if there was no way Sanji deserved it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Zoro said, grabbing Sanji’s other arm and holding him in place. “Quit fucking running off every time you get stressed!”

“I don’t want your pity,” Sanji spat.

“I don’t pity you, bastard, I fucking care about you! Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes!” This time, Sanji really did kick him. Zoro flew backwards into the door of the pantry. A clatter came from inside the door; probably a stack of cans toppling over.

Zoro got to his feet slowly, his expression neutral.

Sanji’s heart hammered inside his chest. His arms felt locked up, his legs like dry twigs. “I’m sorry,” Sanji told Zoro, probably for the first time ever, tearing his gaze away.

Zoro didn’t say anything. Heavy footsteps strode past Sanji. The galley door squeaked open, then slammed shut. Sanji kept his eyes on the floor. His vision blurred; his nerves burned.

 

XXX

 

Sanji was supposed to be on watch.

Instead, he was sneaking around the infirmary, latching onto the brief opportunity to scan through Chopper’s medical texts while the little reindeer slept. It wasn’t often that no one on the crew was injured (at least not visibly, if Sanji were to count himself), and he’d been waiting for a while for an opportunity to do his own research without someone else around to pry into his business.

He’d meant to grab a book or two to sneak beneath his jacket, and page through on the deck while scanning the horizon for potential enemy vessels. But one damning title had caught his eye, and drawn his attention like a spider with a fly:

The Body-Mind Link: Physiological Connections Between Trauma and Chronic Pain

Sanji’s throat felt thick. His hands shook as he slid the book off the shelf. It was a paperback, with a self-help designation on its back cover. Not the sort of heavy-duty medical text that made up most of Chopper’s library. It seemed like a layman’s text. Or at least, a layman’s text if said layman were already generally familiar with the materials being discussed.

Sanji opened the book to a random page. What he read made his blood go cold.

"…history of trauma may experience a variety of symptoms, some of which can be connected to chronic pain, and many can affect pain levels.

"Trauma can alter the human brain and nervous system by making them become overprotective.  This is called central pain sensitization, which essentially means that a patient’s nervous system is stuck in alarm-mode. It sends out pain messages in reaction to possible threats, even when there’s no actual danger. This can result in things that shouldn’t cause pain at all actually causing extreme pain. Research suggests that patients with a history of trauma may be more susceptible to developing central sensitization.

"In fact, a single highly intense event—whether physical or emotional—can act as the “straw that breaks the camel’s back” when it comes to developing central sensitization."

As much as Sanji wanted to banish the thought from his mind, there was no ignoring the reality that his problem began in the days immediately following Whole Cake Island. But how did that make sense? As shitty as that whole escapade had been, it wasn’t as though that had been the worst thing Sanji had ever gone through. There’d been the rock, for one. And before that, the years he’d spent in the dungeon or getting the shit kicked out of him by his brothers.

There’d been his mom dying, and leaving him to face all the rest of it alone.

“Fucking shit,” Sanji said, and slammed the book closed. Because it was just a paperback, it didn’t make the satisfying clunk sound he’d been hoping for. Instead, it just left him feeling foolish, like a little kid having a temper tantrum.

“Um… am I interrupting something?”

Sanji whirled around. It was Usopp, standing hesitantly in the door, eyes puffy with interrupted sleep.

Sanji hid the book behind his back, then internally cursed himself. Way to not look suspicious, dumbass. “No,” Sanji said. Then, “It’s my watch. What are you doing up, anyway?”

“Looking for earplugs. Luffy’s snoring again.”

“Oh, uh.” Sanji looked around. He spotted the little jar on Chopper’s desk. “I think that’s them.”

“Great, thanks, Sanji.” Usopp took a pair of earplugs and started to leave, but stopped before he walked out the door. “Um, not that I would question you or anything like that. But if you’re on watch, what are you doing in the infirmary? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Usopp looked genuinely concerned, despite his obvious sleep deprivation. It made Sanji think of Zoro, who he absolutely did not want to think about right then.

“Not exactly,” Sanji said.

Usopp’s frown deepened. He shuffled in place a bit. “I’m probably just reading too much into things, but you’ve been kind of different since… anyway, I’m just saying, I’m not the only one who’s worried.”

A few years ago, Usopp never would have dared to broach a difficult conversation like this, Sanji was certain. He felt at once proud of him and annoyed to have been called out by yet another crew member. It was different than with Zoro, who Sanji would’ve wanted to fight or… do something physical with... no matter what he said.

Sanji chewed the inside of his cheek. He tried not to smoke in the infirmary if he could help it, but god, if he didn’t want a cigarette. Could he open up to Usopp about what was going on?

“I appreciate that,” said Sanji. “I do. I…” he swallowed. “If there ever came a day when you couldn’t fight the same anymore, what would you do?”

Usopp, to his credit, kept a straight face. “I’d probably be upset. Scared, too.” He cracked a smile. “But I’m always kind of scared, right?”

“You wouldn’t worry about the crew leaving you behind?”

“I mean, after Enies Lobby, I kind of already know how that would go.” Usopp puffed out his chest a bit, probably without even realizing he was doing it. “Luffy doesn’t leave any of his friends behind.”

That was true. If Whole Cake Island had taught Sanji anything, it should have been that.

He nodded slowly, and tried to smile. “Get some sleep, Usopp.”

Usopp looked like maybe he wanted to say more, but then apparently thought better of it. “Feel better, Sanji.”

When Usopp’s footsteps had fully retreated, Sanji brought the book out from behind his back. Read the back flap through again. And a third time.

Sanji closed his eyes and sighed.

 

XXX

 

It wasn’t easy to climb up to the crow’s nest anymore, but Sanji was determined. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do things like this, he just had to pay a greater price in pain later whenever he did.

It was three nights after Sanji had found the book, and nearly a week since his disastrous last interaction with Zoro. The humiliation of the aftermath was so strong, Sanji had barely even been able to look at him during mealtimes. But he also knew he couldn’t let things continue to sour between them like this. It was easy to stew in anger, until it made the pain flare. And if that book had anything right about the whole body-mind connection bullshit, continuing to freak out over whatever his relationship with Zoro was or wasn’t would not help.

“Shitty swordsman,” Sanji said, after he climbed through the trap door into the crow’s nest and Zoro hadn’t so much as glanced at him. He was busy lifting a set of weights that was at least twice the size of his body, looking out over the dark horizon. “Hey! Asshole. I brought a goddamn peace offering, the least you could do is look at me.”

Zoro still didn’t turn around. “Could say the same thing to you, shit cook.”

Sanji grit his teeth and resisted the urge to spew venom back. “Booze and onigiri. Take it or leave it, last chance.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

Zoro said it so casually, seemingly without a second thought. It took Sanji a moment to realize that the punched-in-the-gut feeling he was experiencing was because of Zoro’s words, and not just more of his own body fighting him.

“Yeah,” Sanji said. “You made that clear enough.”

He turned around to go back down the ladder, ignoring the stinging in his eyes.

“Cook, wait.”

Sanji stilled, despite himself, already half out the trap door.

Zoro put down his weights and turned around. His brow was pinched, his jaw clenched. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

The words sat heavy between them.

“Okay,” Sanji said at last.

“Good,” Zoro nodded. A part of Sanji resented how easy it seemed to be for him. The simplicity of training and fighting, with no complicated overthinking to get in the way.  Zoro turned back to his weights. “Leave the food and booze.”

Sanji’s heart leapt at Zoro’s request. He cursed himself the whole way down the ladder.

 

XXX

 

It felt strange and uncomfortable to be the one doted on for a change. It wasn’t like Zoro was watching Sanji’s every move, ready to swoop in with help lifting heavy things or a spontaneous massage, but he still had that strange sixth sense. It was almost like Haki, the way he seemed so attuned to the state of Sanji’s body and mood. A far cry away from how things used to be between them, when Zoro hardly paid him any mind whatsoever except on the battlefield.

There were times when Sanji still balked against it. Zoro would approach and quietly try to urge him to someplace more private, and Sanji would wave him off with a light kick to the shin and a discouraging look, especially if a lot of their crewmates were around.

Other times, though, Sanji couldn’t help himself. He’d let Zoro drag him into the panty, or if they were on an island and things were calm enough with the locals, a hotel. Whenever they did this, it wasn’t just Zoro taking care of Sanji’s aching, sensitive body anymore. They usually ordered in, drank together, just… hung out. There wasn’t a lot of talking, but it was peaceful. Comfortable. The sort of vibe that wasn’t exactly easy to come by, not on the Grand Line, and certainly not as part of a crew as chaotic as theirs.

Sanji wasn’t stupid. He knew he was catching feelings for the stupid swordsman, probably out of some kind of twisted Pavlovian response to all the care and touching.

But that was his business. Zoro had already rejected him, the one time Sanji had made moves to return the favor. Why should things be any different now?

An arousal response was one thing. Feelings were a completely different beast.

Sanji should’ve known he couldn’t play coy with himself forever, though. One fateful shore leave, he and Zoro met up in secret like usual once he was done restocking the ship, and got a room. Every time they did this it felt like a tryst. In a way it was, and Sanji still wasn’t sure what he would say if anyone else on the crew ever caught on to what they were doing. Had he been on the observing end of something like that, he would have been hard pressed to believe that there wasn’t something sexual going on between the two crewmates involved.

Sanji’s thoughts drifted along these lines as he laid on the bed. Zoro’s now-familiar hands roamed over his back, pressing into his sweet spots in a way that had become routine.

Then Zoro moved his hands further down, to the back of Sanji’s thighs. “You’re tight here, too. Let me...”

Sanji’s body tensed up further with humiliation at his own arousal at the feel of Zoro pressing against the intimate area of his inner thighs. It had never been difficult for him to get turned on—so much so, it had been an embarrassingly public problem in the past. But it had never happened before because of a man, much less a male crewmate.

But the placement of Zoro’s hands… the rough timber of his voice… it made it impossible not to imagine what it would feel like, if Zoro were to spread Sanji open… if he were to press those thick fingers inside...

Zoro’s concerned voice pulled Sanji from his debaucherous thoughts. “Cook, are you bleeding?”

It was true. Sanji lifted his head up a few inches from the pillow, and saw the damning stains of one of his stupid fucking nosebleeds tainting the white cotton cover.

“Fuck.” Sanji knotted his fists in the comforter. He felt frozen. He was speaking, but his brain was floating. “I don’t—I’m sorry. I’ll get dressed. I’m sorry.”

Sanji started to get up, but Zoro’s hand pressed into the center of his back, forcing him back down. Sanji sucked in a breath through his teeth.

It was quiet between them for a long moment, the air saturated with a new kind of tension. Sanji’s pulse felt like a hummingbird caught in his throat.

Zoro finally spoke, and to Sanji’s surprise, he sounded almost nervous. “We can, if you want. But only if you want. I don’t want to if you’re only doing it because you think you have to—”

“I want to,” Sanji blurted almost immediately.

Zoro removed some of the pressure of his hand on Sanji’s back, like he wasn’t sure whether Sanji was to be believed.

Sanji couldn’t help but writhe under his touch, longing for the pressure to return. He closed his eyes. “I want to, Zoro, please.”

Hesitantly, Zoro’s hands returned to Sanji’s thighs. He pressed his thumbs into the sensitive flesh just beneath the curve of his ass. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

Sanji wasn’t sure what he was expecting. It was easier not to think; this was already such a huge leap, he didn’t want to give himself the chance to freak out. But he would have thought Zoro would fuck like he fought: rough, yet precise, confidently taking what he wanted.

He wasn’t expecting to feel Zoro’s lips graze over the back of his thigh, just above his knee. Then further up, peppering kisses in Sanji’s most sensitive places.

“What are you doing?” Sanji’s voice shook. “Get on with it, if you’re going to.”

He could hear the smirk in Zoro’s response. “I thought you liked it when people savored things.”

Despite himself, Sanji huffed a laugh. “You ass.”

“You don’t actually mind, do you?”

Zoro, bless him, sounded almost nervous. It wasn’t a side to him that Sanji saw often.

“…no,” Sanji admitted. “It’s just.”

The words caught in his throat. Sanji suddenly wanted very much to be away from all of this, to be back on the ship in his hammock or the galley, surrounded only by things he was familiar with. He didn’t understand this Zoro. This man who, apparently, cared enough about him to genuinely want him to feel good. Who he would still be fighting alongside tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. This wasn’t just a quick hookup on a random island with a lady he was certain to never see again. Sanji hated feeling so out of his depth.

“It’s just?” Zoro prompted.

Sanji detached his mind from his mouth, and just let the words come. It was the only way to answer honestly. “No one’s ever been with me like this before.”

Zoro’s hands were still on the backs of Sanji’s thighs, gently stroking the skin there with his thumbs. He did that a lot, Sanji noticed. “You mean, like it is with a man.”

Sanji felt himself blushing. “That, too. But I meant…” Sanji propped himself up on his elbows and twisted around with the intention of gesturing between them, but his brain broke at the sight of Zoro, looking far too debauched for what little they’d done so far.

The tanned skin of Zoro’s forearms glistened with massage oil. A light blush dusted across his nose, and his eyes had gone demon-dark. It was the same barely-restrained, hungry look he wore in the seconds building towards what was sure to be a satisfying fight.

Sanji swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Let me try,” Zoro said at last, his voice a low rasp. “If you don’t like what I’m doing, we’ll stop. But I’ve wanted you like this so goddamn bad, Sanji.”

Sanji shuddered at the sound of his name in Zoro’s rough timber, and his cock throbbed, aching where it was pressed to the mattress. Licking his lips revealed that his nose was bleeding again. Of fucking course. He barely resisted the urge to duck his head in shame.

It was mortifying, being desired. If that’s even what this was.

“Fine,” Sanji managed. He tore his eyes from Zoro, and fixed them instead on the strange hotel-style abstract art above the headboard. “It’s your show, shitty swordsman.”

Zoro didn’t rush things. Every movement was deliberate, lava-like, in its slow-moving intensity, as he went back to kissing and nipping at the back of Sanji’s legs. Sanji tried to treat it the same as the massages, to give himself over to the pleasant sensations as a distraction from the ever-present awareness of pain. But when Zoro’s hands fanned over his ass and spread him open, Sanji couldn’t help but tense up again, his breath growing ragged with anticipation.

He expected a finger, maybe two. If they were going to do this he’d have to be prepped.

Sanji certainly did not anticipate the feeling of Zoro’s tongue lapping curiously at his entrance.

“What are…?” Sanji’s breath hitched when Zoro’s tongue pressed inside, and his hips squirmed forward. “Don’t—!”

Zoro let up. “You don’t like it?”

Sanji’s face grew hot. “That’s—that sort of thing’s too filthy!”

“Heh. Doesn’t sound like much of an answer to me.” When Zoro grinned, his flushed lips caught the light, shiny with massage oil. “You want me to stop?”

What Sanji wanted was to die. He’d never felt such humiliation.

Despite himself, he buried his face back in the pillow and shook his head ‘no.’

Zoro huffed a laugh, victorious, and bent again to his task.

Zoro’s tongue was hot and sure; his jaw, tireless. It made sense, considering Sanji had literally seen him training to hold heavier and heavier objects between his teeth. But Sanji had never let his mind drift towards anything this debaucherous when it came to the swordsman. It left his stomach fluttering, being exposed like this; having Zoro’s mouth in such a dirty, intimate place.  

When Zoro added a finger shortly after, Sanji moaned, shuddering around the new sensation.

“I know,” Zoro said, his free hand stroking the small of Sanji’s back. “I know.”

Sanji wanted to respond with something biting. He shouldn’t allow Zoro to talk down to him under any circumstances. But the soft words, just short of taunting, had his brain short-circuiting yet again. He shifted his knees and rocked his hips backwards, as if to prove that this—Zoro being inside him, touching him in a place he’d hardly ever dared to touch himself—wasn’t getting to him. He could handle it. He could handle it just fine.

Soon, Sanji was fucking himself at a rhythm, chasing the shameful feeling of fullness. He felt untethered, needy, divorced from all the insecure thoughts that typically plagued him. Zoro added a second finger, then a third. Sanji wished he could see Zoro’s face, but it was probably better this way, where he could still maintain some degree of separation from what was happening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Zoro; it was that, if he truly let his brain catch up to everything that was happening, he’d either panic and ruin things or come on the spot.

“Come on, Marimo, fuck me already.” Sanji hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but found in the aftermath, he didn’t care.

Zoro removed his fingers with a loud squelch. “Since you asked,” he said. Sanji could tell from his voice that he was grinning.

Sanji huffed and kicked at Zoro with his heel. “Cocky bastard.” He pressed his chest further into the mattress, and moved his hips higher.

He heard the click of the bottle of oil open and closing, and felt the tip of Zoro’s lubed cock brush against his entrance. Sanji did his best to relax. This was it. This was really happening.

“Fuck,” Sanji said, as Zoro pressed inside. All of his breath left him at once. The stretch was more than he’d expected, and there was a strange sort of pleasure-pain to it. Sanji had never expected pain to feel good. Yet as Zoro fucked into him, opening him up further with small thrusts, giving Sanji time to adjust, Sanji felt sparks low in his gut. It hurt, and it felt good, and the sensation was so confusing, it left tears pricking the corner of his eyes. He ground his teeth when he realized what was happening. He would not cry during sex, especially not with Zoro.

“You good, Cook?” Zoro said, when he was fully seated inside.

“Yeah,” Sanji said, throat thick. “M’fine.” In truth, he was far better than fine. He felt the best kind of overwhelmed. He felt consumed, like the only thing to think about was the strong body wrapped around him. “You can move.”

It turned out that Zoro did fuck like he fought. He knew exactly where to press, how to move against Sanji to leave him crying out despite himself. Sanji’s thighs spread wider, an involuntary attempt to further accommodate Zoro. His body ached at the positioning, his abused joints taking a beating with the repetition of being fucked, but he felt absolutely debauched, slick all over with oil, and more limber than he had in ages.

He wanted nothing more than for Zoro to use him, to chase his own pleasure, to reach release because of Sanji.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Zoro managed. His following thrust was particularly rough. Sanji’s breath hitched. “So good for me, Sanji. I wanna make you feel so good.”

Sanji felt his own orgasm building. “Zoro,” he warned. “I’m—”

“You can do it,” Zoro said. “C’mon, come for me.”

And that was it. Stroking his own cock in time with Zoro’s thrusts, Sanji tipped over the edge.

Zoro followed soon after, pulling out just before his release.

Silence, again, as their breathing slowed and Sanji’s brain tried to come back online. He felt boneless, fucked out. Sticky, too, but that was a problem for later.

He took stock mentally of how his body was doing. He expected to be in more pain after that level of intimate physical exertion, but mostly, he was just exhausted. He let his limbs go limp, burrowing the side of his face into the pillow and taking a deep breath.

Zoro got up from the bed, and returned a few minutes later with a warm, damp cloth. His hands lingered as he cleaned the two of them up, petting gently over the part of Sanji’s hips he’d been gripping so tightly earlier. Already, Sanji could feel the way the skin was trying to bruise, but found that he didn’t mind.

“Wait,” Sanji said, when Zoro got up again, probably to dispose of the cloth.

“Hmm?” Zoro asked.

Sanji was too tired for words. He shifted so that he was on his back, then pulled back the other side of the still-tucked-in covers. Realizing he probably looked a bit too nervous, he gave Zoro his best don’t-fuck-with-me look.

Zoro rolled his eyes, but his posture relaxed. He tossed the cloth to the side and slipped under the covers beside Sanji.

Sometime later, when Sanji was drifting in that sweet liminal space between wakefulness and sleep, Zoro pressed his lips against his neck, “You don’t deserve to be in pain, you know.”

The words struck something unexpected within Sanji. He carded his fingers through the fine hairs at the nape of Zoro’s neck. “Go to sleep, Marimo.”

Sanji laid awake, staring at the ceiling for a long time.

 

XXX

 

Shitty swordsman, Sanji thought, as he pulled up a seat to the table.

It was dinner time, around a month after the first of several times Sanji and Zoro had sex, and things were as wild as always. Luffy trying to steal everyone’s food.  Zoro and Nami teaming up to yell at Luffy. Franky and Usopp excitedly going over some sort of tech they’d encountered on the last enemy ship, which Franky thought he could replicate for the Sunny. Robin and Jimbe watching from the side, while Brook tuned his violin between bites.

“Hey, everyone?” Sanji raised his voice just enough to be heard over the commotion. “Can I bother you for your attention for just a moment? There’s something I need to discuss.”

Sanji rarely would’ve dared to interrupt a meal over his own personal matters, but this was one of the only times the crew was all in one place, and he really didn’t want to have to repeat this. Maybe it was the hesitancy in Sanji’s voice, or maybe it just was that odd that he would interrupt a meal to make an announcement, but the crew did quiet pretty quickly, even when Luffy used the distraction to sneak a final bite off of Usopp’s plate.

“What’s up, Sanji-kun?” Nami asked.

He resisted the urge to praise her never-ending beauty and consideration, and instead, pressed forward before he could talk himself out of it again. This’ll show that asshole, he thought.

“Lately, I’ve been having some health problems,” Sanji said. Before Chopper could freak out, he held up a hand. “Ones I haven’t really discussed as much as I should have with Chopper. Sorry about that. I just… anyway, I wanted to tell you now because while I’m figuring that out, I might not be able to do all the things I usually do, and sometimes I might have to ask for help.” The words burned in his throat, like truth-vomit. It was a bleak picture. He almost couldn’t stand looking at all of his nakamas’ concerned faces. “I hope that’s alright.”

Sanji cleared his throat, and when no one said anything right away, seemingly unsure what to say in response to his unexpected request, he gestured for them to keep eating.

Luffy was the first to break the silence. “Well duh! Why should you have to do things that make you feel bad? Of course, we’ll help!”

The others echoed Luffy immediately, apparently grateful that their captain was taking the lead. From there, everyone overwhelmed Sanji with a chorus of questions and suggestions. Promises that he had nothing to worry about, questions about what they could do to help, Chopper specifically bursting into angry tears and telling Sanji to meet him in the infirmary right away after dinner so they could get to the bottom of things. Sanji wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to say to explain himself, when he was the one who let things drop off Chopper’s radar in the first place back before Wano, but that was a problem he’d have to deal with later.

As Sanji did his best to provide what details he could without dipping into TMI territory, he caught Zoro watching him from across the table, his single eye bright.

 

XXX

 

Sanji had just finished a long series of additional tests with Chopper, who thankfully, wasn’t actually mad at Sanji for putting off continuing to look for a diagnosis. Apparently, it was common in patients with chronic pain to avoid treatment, either for fear of what they might find out or a self-imposed minimization of symptoms.

Sanji had flinched at both counts, but offered his apologies nonetheless. His goal really hadn’t meant to make Chopper worry for him; quite the opposite actually.

But Chopper waved him off, insisting that regardless of how things had gone up through now, he was going to keep running tests and conducting research about Sanji’s symptoms until they found a solution. Until then, Chopper had prescribed a variety of pain management techniques, some of which Sanji had never even thought to consider.

Maybe this would be a turning point. Maybe there was a way for him to go back to how he was.

If not, screw it! Sanji would keep charging headlong towards his dream anyway. Sure, maybe getting dicked-down by his regrettably hot crewmate wasn’t going to cure his pain, but as far as pain management was concerned, in his case, it couldn’t hurt. He would keep finding additional ways to adapt to his new limitations, and that would be that.

Overhead, the door to the crow’s nest clapped closed. Sanji took a slow drag of his cigarette and smiled to himself, silent, while Zoro made his way down. The rest of the crew had already dispersed into their own solo-evening activities, leaving them the only two on deck.

“I obviously won the bet. About being taken care of.” Sanji tossed his smirk in Zoro’s direction, after he heard two heavy boots hit the floor.

Zoro didn’t answer right away. Instead, he approached and moved as if he was going to put his hands on Sanji’s waist, but seemed to hesitate at the last minute.

In for a penny, Sanji supposed, and took Zoro’s hand.

Zoro stilled, not resisting as Sanji took his time examining the lines on Zoro’s palm. The hand was calloused but warm. Strong. Sure.

Sanji liked that Zoro’s hands had been all over him. Even if he found himself completely out of pain tomorrow, he wouldn’t want to stop what they were doing.

“I’m glad you talked to them,” Zoro said finally, rather than taking the bait Sanji had laid out.

Sanji nodded. He laced his fingers through Zoro’s and squeezed, the pain in his knuckles only smarting a little. The irony of how much priority he’d given across his life to caring for his hands, only for all that work to hardly matter now, was still a bitter pill to swallow. Yet the feeling of his hand and Zoro’s twined together brought its own separate sort of tentative euphoria.

Had he never gotten swallowed up by all this pain to begin with, who could’ve said if he and Zoro would’ve gotten to this point with each other?

“You know,” Sanji said slowly. “You could stand to let others take care of you a little more too.”

Zoro scoffed, even as he squeezed Sanji’s hand back. “I’m content with the way things are.”

“What was it you said at the beginning of all this?” Sanji said. “’Think of it as a favor you’re doing for me’?”

Zoro looked at Sanji with the same conviction he had whenever he declared his intention to become the greatest swordsman. “I would do anything for you.”

Sanji huffed a laugh. This dedicated, beautiful, intense idiot.

He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Zoro’s lips, barely even noticing the pain in the back of his neck. “Shitty Marimo. As if I wouldn’t do the same.”

 

Notes:

Kudos and comments are always appreciated if you have the time/capacity. Thank you so much for reading!