I don't own the display picture.

The Strawhat's cook was in utter misery.

He sat helplessly against a thick tree, ignoring the flies that threatened to give him swollen bumps for sitting on their homes. The news had hit him like a sharp dagger, right in the center of his now wounded heart. He was in terrible need of his nakama, but fate seemed to think otherwise by bringing upon the crew a harsh storm. He was in such a shocked state that he barely noticed himself falling off the ship and into the frosty water. His rival, yet still his companion Zoro had jumped in after him, but they both ended up being pushed by the merciless waves onto a small, abandoned island.

The last thing he wanted to do was show weakness in front of the swordsman.

But Zeff, the man that had given the cook hope and lessons he lived his life by, was now gone. His unlit cigarette fell out of his mouth as he gaped at the ground, refusing to believe it. Zoro had wondered into the island's forest. Sanji understood his purpose; he was giving him the private time he needed. But although that was considerate of him, Sanji wanted him to be there. He wanted him to be there so he could prevent himself from falling into a pit of sorrow and gloom.

As if to answer his wish, Zoro appeared from behind a large rock, holding two, large rabbits he'd hunted, and a pile of wood. Sanji didn't even have it in him to tease the swordsman for finding his way back in ease. With no words, he started a fire, and improperly began to cook them, making the slightest hint of amusement appear on Sanji's troubled face. The swordsman was no expert at cookery, but he was able to fix something good enough to eat. He placed the cooked meat on a large leaf, which acted as a bowl, and placed it on his companion's lap, then quietly sat beside him.

The cook eyed the meat in front of him, but his mind was in a very far away place. He took a bite and began to chew before placing it back on the leaf. A tear slowly slipped off his damp lashes and ran down his cheek before falling onto his pants. The first tear encouraged more to fall, and the cook ended up having a lap drenched with salty water.

"Damn…marimo," he whispered, the tears now beginning to soak his sleeve. Zoro simply proceeded with his eating; knowing that what he did was enough.

The cook didn't need physical contact or words to feel supported. He only needed the presence of a nakama.