Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izo stepped lightly onto the deck of the Thousand Sunny. Ace’s brother’s ship. From the corner of his eye he could see Vista climbing aboard just as gingerly, Ace beside him.

Izo felt a tingle run up his spine as he examined the ship. With its unusual grass deck and trees— and a swing no less— the ship looked whimsical and fun. But Izo had fought the Big Mom Pirates enough times to know that whimsy could hide deadly intent.

This is an emperor's ship. The thought kept repeating in his mind. It was small compared to the flag ships of the other emperor’s— positively tiny compared to the Moby Dick — but that didn’t mean much for what dangers it might hold. Izo’s observation haki had always been one of his strengths. These boards practically sang with power. It made his skin crawl.

He prowled like a cat over the main deck. They weren’t trying to sneak aboard, but oddly there was no one in sight. A ship like this wouldn’t be left unguarded. Izo’s sense of unease rose.

Izo turned to Ace. He was too far away to ask quietly and for some reason Izo balked at calling across the deck. Ace’s eyes were bright in the dim, evening light though. He was looking around, sharp-eyed and alert. Apparently, Ace’s eagerness to see his brother wasn’t outweighing his caution at the new situation. That was something at least.

Izo shifted his gaze to Vista. The other commander had stopped on the far side of the mast and was staring at something with a disturbed look on his face. Izo crossed the deck to join him in three longs strides.

“What the—” Ace said as he came around the mast the other way. Propped up on the bench that circled the base of the mast was a skeleton, a skeleton with an afro wearing a top hat.

Izo leaned in a little closer even as Vista drew back. It was clearly a real skeleton, not painted wood or other fakery, but for the life of him Izo couldn’t think of a reason to keep one on the main deck of your ship. If this was a memorial to a friend, it was a poor one.

A warning, perhaps? But to who?

“Haruta said they have that singer on their crew,” Vista said softly, “Soul King? They say he dresses up as a skeleton in his concerts. Apparently, no one has seen his face without the costume. The marines even used his promotional picture as his wanted poster.”

“So this is what, a stage prop?” Ace asked skeptically. “A little gruesome to just keep around…”

Izo felt that chill up his spine again. Whimsy can hide a lot of danger, echoed in his mind. He turned towards the landing.

“Never mind for now,” he said. “There has to be a guard or someone here. Let’s start knocking on these doors. We don’t want to surprise someone and start a fight.”

Ace grinned as though he would enjoy that. Izo rolled his eyes, but before he could reply the merriment slipped from Ace’s face. The dawning horror in his eyes made Izo spin to see what he was looking at.

The skeleton slowly rose to its feet. Its limbs rolled gracefully— how were the bones even attached to each other without ligaments and tendons?!

Izo swallowed hard as it reached its full height, apparently about eight feet, before it leaned forward to loom over them. He was dimly aware of Ace scrambling backwards.

“Yohohoho! And whoooooo might yooooooou be?” The skeleton intoned.

It talks. Of course, it talks.

None of them answered immediately. The skeleton tilted his skull at them like a curious dog.

“I think I must have dozed off and missed your arrival,” it continued in an oddly polite tone. “Terribly rude of me not to be awake to greet you.”

It grinned wickedly, a mouth full of teeth and nothing else.

Izo glanced at the other two. Vista had gone pale. His hands were on his sword hilt, but he hadn’t drawn it yet. Ace had ‘nope’ written all over his expression, yet he was poised for a fight as well. That was good to see, but they weren’t supposed to start a fight here.

“Greetings,” Izo said. “We’re sorry to have…disturbed you.”

Ace made a face at him which he ignored.

“We are representatives of the Whitebeard Pirates. We were hoping to make contact with the Straw Hat crew, potentially even with the captain if he is available,” Izo went on in as normal a tone as he could manage.

“I see,” said the skeleton. He pulled out a teacup on a saucer from somewhere and sipped it contemplatively. The liquid appeared to disappear. Where, Izo had no idea. It wasn’t his most pressing problem however.

“And what is your business with this crew and its captain?” the skeleton asked. It felt odd to hear such a casual tone from a dead man.

“Luffy is my brother,” Ace said, a touch belligerently. “We haven’t seen each other in some time, and I was hoping to reconnect with him.”

“Oh, a family reunion! Yohohoho…how delightful! It would bring a tear to my eye…if I had any!” Vista’s disturbed expression had returned. “The crew did mention Luffy had brothers, but I thought they were dead. Not that I’m one to talk!”

Ace nodded grimly. “Well things have changed lately and that’s part of what I need to talk to him about.”

“How interesting,” the skeleton said, stirring his tea. “As I recall, Luffy’s brother had eaten the flame-flame fruit. Perhaps you could give us a little demonstration to establish your identity?”

It smiled again. Izo nodded appreciatively. It’s true that anyone could claim to be Strawhat’s brother, but they wouldn’t be able to fake his famous devil fruit powers. As point man on this mission, Ace looked at Izo for permission. At his nod, Ace shot a pillar of flame into the air and off to the side so as to miss the ship’s sails.

“Yohohohoho! Very impressive indeed!” The skeleton nodded. “In that case, I’m Brook, humble musician of the Straw Hat Pirates. What are your names, please?”

“I’m Vista, Fifth Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. This is Izo, Sixteenth Division Commander. And you’ve been speaking to Ace, Second Division Commander and Strawhat Luffy’s older brother,” Vista chimed in. “Well met.”

“Well met indeed.” The skeleton grinned. “The captain is expected back shortly. Perhaps you would like to wait below?”

Chapter Text

Nobody touches Sanji. That’s the thing. That’s always been the thing.

He doesn’t think about it consciously, not anymore. His early childhood had been clinical. Endless tests, done by endless face-less minions ushering him to the next thing.

Always performing.

Always falling short.

Touchless.

The blows from his siblings were the only contact he registered. Touch was violence. Another sign of failure.

His mother was the golden exception. He saw her little, but her warmth flooded his senses when he could sneak away to her.

Touch was a stolen moment. And too quickly snatched away.

Soon after they buried her, they buried Sanji too. And all softness went out of the world.

Touch was the claustrophobic, metal mask of anonymity. Touch was inescapable and hard. Wrapping his face and hiding who he was, changing who he was. Not a prince. Not a Vinsmoke. Just a faceless prisoner.

From touchless to Constant. Inexorable. Contact.

—Helpless transformation.

Touch was violence and it was getting worse. Every blow reminding him he was too soft, still too soft. The only softness in the world was him and it was only one of his many failures.

Touch were the burns he got from his early cooking experiments, reminding him he was still alive somewhere under the metal.

His brothers may be hard, but apparently even a faceless prisoner can dream.

Touch was the hand that yanked him out of the freezing ocean. Touch breathed new life into him when he’d been sure it was gone.

Touch was the hard rock under him on the island. Nothing soft here. Except Sanji. Always so weak. Wanting food, wanting attention, wanting more.

In bed on the rescue ship, he heard them discussing where to drop him off and he could barely supress his panic. He had no where to go. No one would take him on as a kitchen helper looking this starved, even if he could convince them he could do the work.

Touch was a blanket pulled up around his chin when Zeff thought he’d gone to sleep.

Zeff pulled his hair once. Only once. They were building the restaurant and he’d gotten too close to an unguarded edge. Zeff had pulled him back by the nearest thing he could reach: Sanji’s hair.

Touch was his own hands in his hair, remembering past touches, past violence.

Tugging, ripping, because pain was the only thing he could feel sometimes and when there’s nothing else even pain is a comfort. A reminder.

No mask here.

Just him.

He had a face. He had a name. It wasn’t the name he was born with, exactly, but it was his. He was real. His hands in his hair.

Zeff laid a hand on his heaving shoulder in apology. He never asked. He never touched Sanji’s hair again. He only touched Sanji with his feet after that.

If occasionally Zeff tucked him in while Sanji pretended to be asleep, neither of them mentioned it.

Touch was a collision. Kitchens are tight spaces and shoving into someone as he passed was expected. Hip-checking someone out of the way of his station was only natural. No need to comment, besides swearing at his coworkers. Swear words he mostly learned from them anyway. They could take it.

Touch had only ever been violence. It was still violent, but now it was also care. The crash of a foot against his head or chest turned into a loving correction.

Sanji may be a failure, but one worthy of further instruction. Zeff didn’t give up on him when something didn’t come naturally to him. He gave Sanji another chance.

Touch could be love as well as violence.

That took some getting used to. He framed his thoughts about Zeff around debt. He owed him. He was paying him back. It was easier to think of that than the nebulous concept of love. Blows were corrections for failures. He learned his lessons well.

Sanji grew into an adult, determined to follow Zeff’s lead. He wouldn’t disappoint the old man. He wouldn’t be soft. Not when it counted.

Zeff’s ironclad rule was one should ever lay hand—or foot—on a woman. It sunk deep into Sanji’s consciousness. It made perfect sense. Touch was violence. Zeff felt men could take it and woman shouldn’t have to. Sanji wouldn’t disappoint him.

Care was shown through feeding someone. Through small gestures when they weren’t looking. Touch was too personal. Too undeniable.

He took to wearing suits. He wore them like armour. Head to toe cloth, nowhere to brush against him. There would be no accidental touches.

He developed a style of flirting that was as much defensive as offensive. He was charming, gregarious, and just off-putting enough that no one pushed for more. No one could say he wasn’t friendly.

But nobody touched Sanji.

When the beautiful redhead flirted back, Sanji was befuddled. When she threw her arms around his neck his brain blanked.

Touch was a transaction. Free food for flirty touches. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Nothing promised, except the promise of nothing more. The touch stopped here.

It was only when he joined his new crew for real that his boundaries were pushed. It was a small ship, close quarters. Nothing like a kitchen, of course, but small crashes were expected.

His captain was a big crash.

Always.

Sometimes when he got excited about dinner he burst through the wall, arms outstretched.

Touch was shoving a plate of food, and his arm, down his captain’s throat in frustration. His captain didn’t even mind. He just grinned and asked for more… after spitting up the plate, of course.

Sanji got used to listening with one ear for the tell-tale shwack of rubber snapping that indicated his captain was in motion. He got used to bracing with one foot for an incoming landing. His captain’s arms wrapped around Sanji each time, using his body as a counterweight to stop the momentum of his flight. His voice clamored for food, even as he touched Sanji all over.

Even through the cloth the contact undoes something in Sanji.

Touch is practical. A necessity for some movements. Luffy is the first person to really touch Sanji. He does so unconsciously and unselfconsciously. Clearly, he has a different take on touch.

Luffy lays his hands on his enemies with violence. He fights with a brawling style that is up close and personal. Sanji’s style is not so different. Touch as violence.

And yet. And yet. When they are with their crew, with their friends, Luffy touches everyone. He climbs people like the monkey in his name and is the first to reach out to strangers.

For enemies, his touch holds violence. Extreme violence.

But with his friends Luffy’s touch is loving. It’s care and it’s friendship. It’s selfish too. A way of saying mine, mine, mine. And Sanji is his. He knows this. He knows this through touch.

Touch can be a way of communicating.

Sanji watches.

Luffy is the first person to really touch Sanji, but he’s not the only one.

Nami’s flirty touches never really stop, even when all he’s offering is a snack he would probably make anyway, with a few minor flourishes. They become less of a transaction though. Her touch is familiarity and comfort. Her touch is appreciation for hard work and recognition of effort.

Touch can be respect.

Usopp is quick to throw an arm around Sanji and draw him into a story. He loves nothing more than a game of tag.

Touch can be play.  

It’s the swordsman who sparks something in Sanji. Something he hasn’t felt before. It makes him uneasy.

He feels unsteady around Zoro. And Sanji is nothing if not steady. Balance is necessary for what he does, everything he does. From balancing plates to balancing on one hand to spin his feet. Sanji is steady. Until he’s not.

They fight. Endless clashes. Constant combat. So close Sanji can feel his hot breath sometimes. The heat from exertion billowing from his body as they brawl. Only they don’t. Not really. No matter how close Sanji gets, he only meets steel.

Occasionally, his leg connects with actual flesh. But it’s rare. It’s brief. It haunts him.

Touch is violence.

But what if it wasn’t.

The unease never goes away. He starts more fights than necessary, needling Zoro until he starts one sometimes just to mix it up. Wanting something from it that he doesn’t dare put a name to. Something he never seems to get, which only deepens the craving.

Weakness.

Sanji is soft. He tries to be hard. Not like his brothers, with their cruelty. Hard like Zeff. Hard like the island. Hard like survival.

Sanji needs to be tough. His crew is counting on him.

Germa thought feelings were weakness. Sanji has never aspired to be Germa though. His passion is his drive. He feels deeply for his crew. Those feelings don’t translate to touch though.

His care comes through his menu plans. Carefully constructed to maximize their supplies and provide optimum nutrition.

His care shows in the way he is the last to go to bed, besides the night watch person, washing dishes and prepping for the morning. The way he is the first up in the morning, making sure breakfast is ready before the others even stir. They’re barely done breakfast when he’s started in on making mid-morning snacks. Then it’s lunch prep time.

He works endlessly. Happy for the compliments and the small shows of appreciation from the crew… from his friends. He has friends now. Real ones, not just coworkers.

Friends that jump onto his back demanding to know if the snacks are ready. Friends that yank him into a wrestling match or a game of tag. Friends that sit so close during card games that their knees brush.

The addition of Vivi is interesting. She has boundaries much like he does.

A diplomatic smile and a friendly disposition can act as a wall when wielded correctly.

She wears her beautiful heart on her sleeve and she’s not afraid to jump into danger. But she doesn’t touch them. Not at first. At first, the only one she touches is her duck.

Touch is a trust that must be earned. And earn it they do.

Sanji wonders if there’s something about royalty that puts up that wall. The velvet rope of who can lay their hands on the royal person. Sanji is no longer a prince. He is merely Mr. Prince. Yet his wall is still there.

A seemingly outgoing personality, wielded like a cudgel in a riot.

Vivi lets them inside her wall. She sleeps in Nami’s bed. She leans against Zoro at mealtimes, trying to fit at their little table on their little benches. She huddles with Usopp in the crow’s nest, keeping watch and chatting.

She doesn’t touch Sanji. Not at first. Not even later, when she does with the others. Vivi may have let them in, but Sanji doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t know how to ask either.

The day they dock in Alabasta, before they disembark Vivi lays one cool hand on Sanji’s wrist. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The gratitude is in her eyes.

They’ve got her this far. They’ll get to her goal or die trying. She just doesn’t understand that yet. Sanji was already going to fight for her. Now he’d die for her. Her cause is his for as long as it takes.

Touch can be thanks. Touch can be motivation.

Chopper is someone else who catches Sanji by surprise. He is quick to be physical with them all. Pushing Luffy back when he gets overbearing. Playing with Usopp. Cuddling with Nami. Dozing next to Zoro.

Verbally he pushes them away, even as his body language betrays how much he likes their attention. Their acceptance.

Touch can be bonding.

(Sanji feels an ache of jealousy for how seamlessly Chopper slips into their lives. He’d been hurt or abandoned by practically everyone he’d ever known and yet he let them in so easily.)

(So easily.)

(And Sanji is still behind his wall, peering out, unable to lower the drawbridge even if he wanted to. He’s not even sure if he still has a bridge in him. He’s so used to his armour that he forgets that he’s wearing it, forgets that he has the option of taking it off. Perhaps he doesn’t anymore. Maybe he’s welded in.)

Chopper is wowed by all the new things he’s experiencing. He comes to Sanji for advice on how to fit into this new crew. Sanji has never been an older brother before. Not a real one. Not emotionally (his brothers didn’t have that). He’s honoured.

When it comes to bath time, Sanji offers to be the one to help Chopper not drown. The others are a little surprised. Zoro usually takes babysitting duty. Sanji just shrugs and says that Luffy is a too much of a handful by himself, so Zoro should focus on him.

Sanji scrubs Chopper’s back in the bath. Somehow if it’s fur, it’s easier. It doesn’t count the same. It doesn’t make sense, even to him, but it’s the truth he knows.  

Touch can be support.

When they use the giant royal baths in Alabasta, Sanji keeps his eyes to himself. He can’t help seeing the others to a certain degree though. His gaze drawn to the diagonal scar nearly bisecting their swordsman. What would it feel like under his fingers?

He doesn’t offer to wash anyone’s back, but he thinks about it. The others are so much more comfortable touching each other than him. How did they get this way?

Touch can be perplexing.

He ogles Nami, alongside the others, when she says it’s alright. When she chooses to flash them. He’ll owe her money for sure, but it’s worth it. How does one get so comfortable in one’s own skin that they can show their body that easily?

No amount of money would sway Sanji, he thinks. Although, no one would ever ask that of him. He’s not in Nami’s league. Nor Zoro’s for that matter. Muscle-bound, green-headed freak. Walking around in a towel. Showing off his scars for all to see. Every mark of past weakness, past failure, just there. Unabashedly.

Sanji met Ace so briefly. They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. But Sanji saw Ace in action, blowing apart ships with a single touch of his fire fist. What would it be like to burn with a touch? What would it feel like to be made of fire and melt all the barriers in one’s way? No more walls.

How careful must one be if one’s touch could consume like that.

Touch can be destructive.

Sanji wonders if he’d like to be consumed by a touch. Perhaps it would be worth it.

Robin is the definition of a walled off person. If Sanji thought his walls were high, hers are stratospheric. There are probably sky islands that can’t reach the top of her wall.

Sanji doesn’t try to scale it. He knows his crew will worm their way in. They always do. Instead, he does what he always does. He feeds her. He showers her with flattery and over-the-top excitement for her presence. He makes her welcome in the only ways he knows how.

She will readily touch all of them with the hands she grows. She’s more careful with her actual body though.

She stands apart from their crew. Reading in the background while they go on adventures. Content to be wallpaper until called upon.

She’s excited by the sky island map and excited that the crew is excited by it. Whoever she was with before clearly valued profit over adventure. Everyone loves a good treasure, but even Nami is excited by the adventure of getting to it.

Sanji can see the cracks growing in Robin’s walls as she leans over the map with Nami, shoulder to shoulder, as Luffy bounces impatiently in the background. Occasionally he lays his hands on Robin’s shoulders as he tries to bounce up to see the map. She lets him.

Touch can be an acquiescence.

On the shores of a sky island (of all things) Chopper rushes to Sanji’s side for protection. He leans against Sanji’s leg— the source of so much destruction, so much violence, so much strength— and silently asks for protection with a touch.

Without needing to think Sanji reaches down to lay one hand on Chopper’s furry head.

Touch can be reassurance.  

Touch can also burn. Sanji still feels the echo of his kick against Usopp’s body when the lightning hits him, obliterates him, drowns out all sense but pain.

“Thanks, I was just about to ask for a light.”

Because if he’s going to die here, he isn’t going to do it looking soft in front of an enemy.

“I don’t care if you die,” Sanji said to Usopp. “I’ll gladly sacrifice your life.” A moment of bravado meant to indicate how scared he is for Nami. How determined they need to be to save her. They must risk their lives if need be.

Usopp tends to shy away from throwing his life away like Sanji is always prepared to. Sanji doesn’t begrudge him that. Usopp is worth a thousand Sanji’s after all.

Usopp in all his complexity. Multi-talented and brilliant. Funny and fun to be with. He has a life worth saving. Sanji tries to imagine what that must feel like. To know so instinctively that your life is worth something that you try to save it, even subconsciously.

But Nami was in danger, so Sanji did what he always did. He used his words to prod and motivate. He tries to be hard. To be tough for them.

I don’t care if you die. We need to save her even if that’s what it costs.

The words taste like a lie.

Usopp pushes back, but Sanji doesn’t miss the flinch. Had Usopp actually believed him?

Kicking Usopp out of the path of danger feels as natural as breathing. Sanji’s words can lie, but his touch can’t.

The lightning arcs through him. Every nerve alight. Every nerve on fire. Every nerve touched for a moment. Just a moment of pure, blazing pain.

Just a moment of pure gratitude that it’s him and not Usopp. Not Nami. Not any of his friends. Sanji could take this. He would take all this pain and more.

Touch can be endurance. Touch can be taking blows meant for others. Perhaps that’s how he could contribute.

Afterwards, long after the dust settled from their fight with the would-be god, Sanji would think over those moments. His desperate fear for Nami. His lie to Usopp—impossibly it seemed he was believed.

How he’d never even consciously thought through switching places with him. He’d just done it. Someone needed to take this hit. No one could take one better than Sanji. He had a lifetime of practice.

His nerves twitch spastically, remembering electricity long since past. His feet are burned from where the lightning exited his body.

Chopper fusses over all of them. Sanji very reluctantly lets him tend to his feet. His kicks are what he has to offer. He can’t risk permanent damage that might compromise them. He can’t help how tense he is during the exam though. How he keeps flinching as Chopper carefully cleans the wounds.

Chopper apologizes over and over, starting again the next time Sanji flinches. He offers more painkillers, but Sanji knows it won’t help. He can take pain. Pain is an old friend by now. Instead, the gentle touches are undoing him in ways no medication could alter.

By the time they descended from the clouds and fought off an entire marine base, Sanji has just about recovered his equilibrium. He knows who he is and what his place is. No touch required to tell him that.

Chopper changes his bandages and tsks over him. Sanji is almost able to ignore it now. Medical necessity. How could he be useful with crippled feet? The doctor has to make sure he recovers. That’s his job.

Sanji’s job is to feed them all. To make the supplies fit their needs. To defend them with all the violence he can muster when the time comes. He did his job at the marine base. He’d even gotten to show off some skills. Taught those marines not to be so wasteful.

How could one waste a kindness like food?

At dinner, the night after they escape the marines yet again, Sanji slips into his chair last. Like usual. He sits gingerly, tense, ready to jump up and grab more for anyone who needs it. Ready to fetch and carry and shower those he loves with what he can give them.

They seem fine for the moment, so Sanji picks up his cutlery. He freezes though, as a hand grows out of the bottom of the table. Discretely tucked back so that no one else would see. He casually glances at Robin. She is focused on her plate, expression serene.

The hand taps him gently on the knee until he slides his own down to take it. Robin threads her fingers between his and squeezes lightly. He finishes his meal, eating with one hand, the other under the table with her. He never leaves his seat. Even when Luffy starts hollering for seconds. Even when Usopp inquires about dessert.

He just tells them where it is and leaves them to it. Her thumb runs ghostly circles over the back of his hand and it’s all he can think about.

Sometimes a touch can stop you in your tracks.

He is still musing over Robin’s strange move at dinner when they stop at a small island to resupply. It’s the kind of forgettable place that barely warrants a mention, let alone an overnight stay.

But Nami notes the intense tides of the bay—not unlike the marine base they’d nearly been trapped in—and Usopp lights up.

“It won’t be as good as a dry dock, but if I can beach the Merry at low tide, I can do some repairs below the waterline!”

It will take overnight though. They’re all kicked off the skip and told to go to town. Something about their weight digging the Merry into the sand? (More likely Usopp wants no distractions, and everyone is too worried about Merry to argue much).

“Alright guys,” Nami says, “we technically have money, but we don’t know how much the ship repairs will cost when we find a shipwright, so we have to be careful. There’s an inn here—”

“Should we perhaps camp, if money is tight?” Robin asks, considerate and intelligent as always.

Nami shakes her head. “It’s going to pour rain tonight. I’ve warned Usopp and he thinks he can still do the repairs. We won’t want to sleep outside though.”

“I don’t want any of you bastards catching a cold!” Chopper pipes in, glaring at them all like they’d do it on purpose if he wasn’t watching. Sanji grins at him as Nami haggles with the innkeeper.

“Two to a room! Three rooms total. I got us a group rate.”

Sanji’s grin fades at Nami’s triumphant words. The ladies would room together as usual. Perhaps he can share with Chopper…

But even as he thinks it, he can see Luffy wrestling with Chopper on the lobby floor. They seem naturally paired.

Sanji tries to open his mouth. To ask—plea—not to share with the swordsman. Surely everyone can see this is a bad idea. Surely.

Only they don’t seem to notice. Nami hands Zoro a key and slips away. Chopper and Luffy are on the stairs now, yelling about something. The words seem distant. Sanji stays frozen in his spot.

“Come on, shitty cook, it won’t be that bad.” Zoro gives him a flat look. Sanji tries to summon his usual fire for a response, but nothing comes. The situation is so unexpected, his mind has blanked like someone wiped it clean.

Is this how his brothers feel all the time? Empty and awaiting orders? Cold and distant?

Hands falls onto each of his shoulders. Zoro gives him a gentle push from behind to get him moving. His feet move at the urging, but Zoro has to keep pushing or he’ll stop. The swordsman sighs loudly as he directs Sanji up the stairs.

Sanji doesn’t take in the warped floorboards or the tapestry on the wall. His world shrinks down to the large hands on his shoulders. He can feel their heat though the fabric of his jacket. He can’t feel the callouses he knows must be there. For some reason that makes him sad.

“Seriously, how is this what breaks you?” Zoro mutters as he nudges him through the door of what must be their room.

Sanji doesn’t reply. Can’t. His eyes take in the single, narrow bed in the room, and he can only think: Fuck.

Fuck, am I broken? Is that what I am?

Zoro leaves him in the doorway and kneels by the fireplace. Methodically loading logs, not looking at Sanji. That is a kindness in and of itself. Sanji knows him well enough to spot it. He can’t respond just now. But that doesn’t make him blind.

Has he been blind to this though?

Sanji is soft, that much he knew, but broken? He’s never thought of it like that. Defective for sure. A failed experiment. But he’s been tough for his friends. He’s done what he could for them, weak as he is. He’s tried to be useful.

This was a simple thing they’d asked of him. Share a room with the mosshead for a night. Don’t make a big deal of it.

He stares at the tiny bed and purses his lips. Maybe he could offer to help Usopp. Maybe he could sleep in the rain. Maybe he could offer to sleep on the floor. Maybe he could go to Luffy’s room and beg for a switch.

But it would be the same with any of them. The problem would be the same. Different experience maybe, but the same outcome.

“Sanji,” Zoro says softly.

Sanji blinks. Zoro is standing right in front of him. Had he used his name? His actual name? Sanji can’t recall him ever doing so before. Was he that far gone?

“I sleep on deck all the time. I can take the floor.”

Sanji bristles. “I’m not so weak that I need a cushy bed every night, Mosshead. You’re welcome to the bed.”

Zoro just looks at him with that steady gaze, unflinching. “We both know this is not about how hard the floor is.”

Sanji glares as hard as he can. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

But the marimo picks the worst possible time to be considerate. He shrugs his wide shoulders, more expressively than Sanji thought ought to be possible, and holds out his hands like Sanji is the one being unreasonable.

“Look, I know the others don’t see it. Or choose not to,” the swordsman continues slowly, deliberately. “But this doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sanji snaps, too quickly, too quickly. His words are so cold they should have created frost in the room. Freezing this conversation in place before it can continue.

“Cook, you’re a lot of things but I’ve never taken you for a liar,” Zoro catches his eyes. Sanji looks away first.

“What was that line you used? Everyone has things they can do and things they can’t?”

Sanji freezes. “I…I didn’t realize you were listening.”

Zoro shrugs again. “It’s good advice. You should take it.”

“By what? Admitting I can’t do this? That I’m too weak to share a room? You’d like that wouldn’t you,” Sanji sneers. His heart isn’t in it though. The fucking swordsman is making too much sense. When did this asshole start making sense?

“We both know it’s not the room that’s the problem. You’ve shared a room this whole time.” Zoro crosses his arms over his chest and Sanji tries not to follow the movement. He tries to come up with a retort, but this whole situation is too far gone for him. Too personal. Too close. Fuck.

Zoro huffs at his silence. “Never known you to be at a loss for words either.”

Sanji’s eyes drift to the bed. He swallows hard. He’s got lots of words. They’re just not for Zoro. This isn’t a big deal. It doesn’t matter. It’s one night. Don’t be so weak.

Zoro runs one hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, nobody has to know anything. I don’t know why you’re like this and I don’t really care. Everyone’s got a past, Curly. You don’t have to share yours just because.”

“What, like the others won’t be curious about how we managed not to kill each other in here?” Sanji deflects, unable to address Zoro’s point directly. Hoping, vainly, that the swordsman will take the bait and start a fight. There’s still plenty of time for them to kill each other after all. That might be better than this conversation.

“You take me for a gossip?” Zoro stares at him expectantly.

Sanji hesitates. He could start the fight himself right now. But… but Zoro is right. Sanji is no liar. His lie to Usopp still bothers him. He’s not about to make the same mistake twice.

“What do you want me to say?” Sanji says finally, resigned to his defeat for once.

“Don’t need you to say anything, Curly. Just take your own advice and sleep by yourself.”

Conversation over, Zoro turns on his heel and flops in the corner. Looking for all the world like he’s just going to sleep right there.

Sanji pokes at the fire, just for something to do with his hands. That done, he goes to straighten the bedspread. He glances over at Zoro, but the swordsman’s eyes are closed.

Sanji sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring the creak of frame. Zoro doesn’t twitch. Sanji runs the edge of the blanket through his fingers, feeling for every imperfection in the weave.

What would it be like to share it with someone?

Onboard, Sanji sleeps in the top hammock. He never falls off, unlike some of his crew. It feels like half the time Luffy lands in Usopp’s bunk, snuggling in. It looks peaceful. The very idea makes Sanji’s skin crawl. But they look so content. Sanji aches to know that peace.

Would he—could he—feel comforted by touch? Would it be terrible if the answer was yes? Was it so bad if the answer was no?

If touch could feel good, but he was just too broken to accept it?

Sanji traces the blanket again. Feeling the roughness under his fingertips. Could his brothers feel this? Or was that gone for them too? He was born defective. A failure. Debris to be tossed from the lab. But he can still feel this.

Zoro’s soft, steady breathing fills the room. Driving out the discord in his head.

This doesn’t have to be a big deal.

Never taken you for a liar.

Sanji is a liar though. Lies of omission. They don’t know his past. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. Never mattered really. Debris to be discarded. Who thought about garbage once it was thrown out? The garbage shouldn’t feel the loss either.

I don’t know why you’re like this and I don’t really care.

They don’t care. No one ever asked him his past beyond the restaurant. He told Usopp about the island once. A story for a story.

Usopp sat silent at the end of it. No bluster to cover. No lies to soften. Sanji waited but all Usopp did was squeeze his forearm. Sanji felt it through his suit jacket, grateful and sad it wasn’t his skin all at the same time.

Zoro’s breath shudders in what could almost be called a snore. Sanji stares at him. Fast asleep means nothing to Zoro. He would spring up from deck ready for battle with the tiniest of nudges. He would here too if Sanji gave him cause.

Nobody has to know anything.

Usopp told a lot of stories. He never brought Sanji’s up. Shipwrecks and strandings disappeared from his tales. Starvation, lost at sea never mentioned again. Touch was not the only way to show support. To show care.

Everyone’s got a past, Curly.

Sanji certainly does. But no one asked because it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t have to share yours just because.

Just because. Just because. Just because.

He doesn’t have to hide it just because either. His past is his own. To keep. To share.

His body is his own too. No one’s experiment now. No one’s prisoner now. He wears no mask except the one he choses. Did he want this one?

Suits like armour. A shield between himself and what he thought he didn’t want. But he could change his mind. Sanji sheds his suit jacket, hanging it on the headboard.

He can change his mind. At any time.

No one has been able to force him into experiments, into tests, for a long time. He’s shied away from making any for himself as well. No need to test the boundaries. No need to see what he could and couldn’t do. Sanji knows. He knows he can’t.

He failed so hard he never tried again. Never wanted to.

Until now.

He can stop. He can sleep alone. Zoro obviously doesn’t care either way. Zoro isn’t trying to push him.

I don’t know why you’re like this and I don’t really care.

Whether Sanji can handle touch. Whether Sanji wants it. All of that is up to him.

You don’t have to share just because.

Sanji slowly pulls the cover off the bed. It sinks through his fingers as he gathers. Gathers the fabric in his arms. Gathers his courage.

Everyone has things they can do and things they can’t.

No one cares but Sanji if this is a thing he can do. No one will care if he never wants it. Zoro certainly doesn’t. Zoro is snoring, having said his piece.

Sanji carefully lays the blanket over Zoro’s lap. Zoro doesn’t twitch. His crew never trips his danger sense. Apparently even Sanji.

Sanji wavers.

Everyone has things they can’t do. His life will be fulfilling even if he can’t do this. Even if he fails the test—any test—he sets for himself. His crew will love him even if he can’t want this. No failure will get him cast out. Not wanting touch is not a failure either way. He can want this or not.

The others don’t see it. Or choose not to. Maybe they saw and just didn’t care. Maybe this isn’t the secret, the shame, Sanji always felt it was.

Touch is his. His to give. His to refuse. His to enjoy or not. His choice.

Sani sinks to the ground beside Zoro, stretching out his legs. His muscles have taken to spasms after the lightning hit him. Sometimes he feels like the electricity is still coursing through him. Changing. Altering. Touching him from within. Leaving him different than he was before. Stronger. Tougher. But maybe not harder.

Zoro makes electricity run through him too. Transforming. Strengthening.

It’s stupid for both of them to sleep on the floor. They’ve never been smart about each other though. Sanji tucks the blanket around them. A layer of cloth that encases, that shares. He settles against the wall right next to Zoro. An unbroken line of their two bodies stretched out. Mere centimetres between Sanji’s shirt and Zoro’s wrap. Two pieces of fabric all that separates. Sanji can almost feel him. Almost.

Touch can be his. It doesn’t have to be.

But it can be. If he wants it.

Zoro doesn’t care either way.