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“They’re at it again.”
Nami sighs deeply, her chin in her palm, and she hardly looks away from the scene as Usopp joins her on the table. She’s been watching this verbal altercation unfold and get progressively worse for the past thirty minutes, maybe even an hour… she’s lost count at this point. She’s quite frankly surprised it hasn’t gotten physical yet, as it so often does.
“Sometimes I think that they hate each other more than Zoro and Sanji hate each other,” Usopp comments.
“It’s pretty close,” Nami agrees. She runs her fingers through her hair before slapping both hands down on the table. “At the very least, they get into louder fights, and they seem more… personal. Like, it’s giving pent-up frustration. I don’t know.”
Usopp nods. When the argument reaches a sense of finality, the two parties, that is, you and Sanji, give your last exclamations of hatred for each other before stomping away in completely opposite directions, Sanji back into the kitchen, and you to where the audience is sitting.
“[Y/N] is coming this way. Act natural,” Nami says. Usopp turns away and starts to whistle while Nami stares at her nails she had just painted this morning, pretending to pick off any stray paint.
“I fucking hate that guy.” You stomp up to the table, casting a glance at the both of them. “Don’t bother, I know you guys were watching.”
“What even happened?” Usopp asks, dropping his act.
“I don’t know! I walked into the kitchen and he started yelling at me right from the get go, I didn’t even get the chance to defend myself. And then I tried to leave and he followed me outside like he wanted to pick a fight and I don’t even know how it ended up that way.”
“Why do you guys hate each other so much? You two are like him and Zoro but worse. It’s so annoying when you guys are fighting twenty-four seven,” Nami remarks.
“You don’t think it’s annoying for me, either!?” You pull out your own chair and flop down into it. “I don’t know about him, but whenever I see or think about him my chest and stomach feels weird like I’m going to throw up and have a heart attack and I feel like I want to sock him in the face. But I didn’t even start it this time, I swear.”
Nami and Usopp exchange glances at this information with raised eyebrows, and this does not go unnoticed by you. You frown deeply at their silent conversation.
“What?” you demand. Nami is the first to look back at you.
“Maybe you like him.”
You give her a look, mouth agape, top corner pulled slightly upward, and expression a mixture of disgust and confusion.
“You’re fucking crazy.”
Nami clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes.
“I think that’s— what you just said, those are literally the symptoms of being in love,” Usopp pipes in. Him and Nami snicker amongst each other as your face contorts even more into disbelief.
“Shut up, crazy! You’re crazy!”
“No, just think about it—“
“No, you think about this dick.”
”Wh—!?”
”You guys are crazy, get away from me.” You push yourself away from the table, standing and starting to back up. Usopp is just staring at you, dumbfounded at what you had just said to him before he bursts out laughing.
“You’re the one who came up to us!” Nami shouts at you. You don’t respond, instead turning around and walking away with clear anger and exasperation in your step, reignited by their disturbing claims. “Denial isn’t cute, [Y/N]!”
Usopp wipes his tears away, watching you leave, before adding in, “That’s where Sanji went off to!”
They hear you curse before you pivot on your heel, stomping the opposite way while muttering under your breath like an insane person.
Nami shakes her head. “Those two are hopeless.”
───
You do think about it, per Usopp’s request, and much to your dismay, sleep evading you despite every effort to summon and succumb to it. You think and think and think until it drives you crazy, until the room feels like it’s closing in on you, and the air gets too thick and stuffy to breathe comfortably. So you crawl out of your hammock and steal away into the night, out onto the deck.
You drape your arms over the railing and stare into the ocean’s black void. Unfortunately for you, the waves crashing against each other and the side of the ship isn’t enough to drown your thoughts out.
You wonder if Sanji feels the physical symptoms that you feel, the pounding heart, the difficulty breathing, the twisting stomach, the hot, flushed, and sweaty skin. You wonder if Sanji’s incendiary nature, his constant need to start a fight with you is like his way of dealing with the way he feels about you, much like the way you—
You shake your head. No no no. You’re going about this the wrong way, thinking about this the wrong way. You’re wondering all of this as if Nami and Usopp had been right about what you feel for Sanji, and they’re not. Definitely not. That could not be further from the truth. They’re wrong and they’re crazy.
The sound of the ocean and the midnight’s breeze do however drown out the footsteps that approach you from behind, and you don’t notice until a new pair of arms lean against the railing next to you. You shoot your gaze up to see the devil himself, staring out into the never ending abyss of the night, the wind gently rustling his blonde hair turned silver in the moonlight, not a cloud in the sky. From where you’re standing on his left side you can’t see his eyes at all.
Sanji pulls a box of cigarettes and matches from his pants pocket. He turns to you so that you can see his eye and most of his face now, though he’s looking down, gaze fixed on his object of addiction. He holds out the box of matches to you, which you stare at without making a move.
“Can you help me?”
This request catches you by surprise at first, but you comply anyway, taking the box from him, and you feel a sudden rush of anger and annoyance when your heart starts to pound as your fingers brush his. You watch as Sanji pulls a cigarette from the box, placing it between his lips, before cupping his hands around it as a wordless cue for you to go ahead and light it. You strike the match against the rough edge of the box, watching it ignite between the two of you. You cup your own hand against Sanji’s, your heart racing faster and faster, what little heat from the tiny fire causing beads of sweat to form on your forehead.
Do you feel the same? You think. Tell me. Tell me right now.
If, hypothetically speaking, Nami and Usopp were right.
The telepathy doesn’t seem to work. So instead, you press the fire to the end of his cigarette. Sanji inhales, and the paper and tobacco start to burn. The two of you bring your hands away, letting the breeze take the flame out into the night, and you flick the used up match into the ocean, its black waves swallowing it whole.
Then, you wonder why he hadn’t just lit his cigarette inside before he decided to come outside and bother you. Your mind starts to buzz and whirl on what this could possibly mean, but his voice pulls you out of it before you could spiral too deeply.
“You want one?” Sanji waves the box of cigarettes at you. You’re almost too quick to decline it, but something grabs a hold of your mind, wrangles with it, faces you towards the opportunity that Sanji had just presented to you. You just can’t understand him, though. You can’t read his intentions at all. Just this morning he had been screaming at you for knocking over a glass of water near the stove and supposedly invading his space. Why is he being so nice to you all of a sudden?
You seem to be staring at it with a certain type of intensity for a little too long, because Sanji waves the box again, in front of your glaring eyes this time. “Hellooo?”
You blink and shake your head, before frowning a comically deep frown. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
Sanji, thinking nothing of your snappy response for some reason, flips the cardboard lid open and shakes one loose. You take it and place it between your lips, but before you can ask for the box of matches back, he holds his own cigarette steady between his fingers and leans forward. You freeze up, all the muscles in your body tense, and the sweat that the wind had long since dried up returns.
He presses the lit end of his cigarette to your unlit one, and while he watches yours begin to burn, you watch his face, focused and warmed by the slightest orange glow. Your cigarette has long since been lit, but Sanji remains there, the single eyebrow you can see furrowed deeply as if in thought. You’re unsure whether he’s trying to torture you, but you lose the game of chicken, being the first to back away. This seems to break him from whatever thought he had found himself so deep within.
You turn away, leaning against the railing once again. You’re downwind from Sanji, and his smoke washes over you, but you don’t say a word about it.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
You turn to him, giving him a look like he’d grown a second head. The only way you know to respond is with sarcasm. “No, I could sleep perfectly fine.”
Sanji frowns out, rolling his eyes. “Well, I couldn’t with all your tossing and turning.”
“Well, maybe if you weren’t such an asshole I wouldn’t have been tossing and turning,” you snap.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Sanji gazes at you, taking a drag from his cigarette.
“It does in my head.”
Sanji scoffs, but it gives way to a gentle laugh, and you stare at the sea with wide eyes, your cheeks burning brightly. You’ve never been as grateful for the lack of lighting as you are right at this exact moment.
You let your cigarette burn down to its filter while Sanji takes occasional drags. You can’t help but fidget because of your close proximity to him, your hands wringing each other in an almost— in an entirely nervous manner. You can’t seem to get your pounding heart to calm down, and you feel like the only way to get it to stop is to land a solid punch right against his pretty face. You can’t exactly describe this as comfortable silence, either, as your mind races with voices loud and small, a conglomeration of thoughts that you can hardly discern from each other. With your elbows propped against the railing, you flick the filter into the sea in frustration, before shoving your face into your hands. You massage your browline in an attempt to quell the voices and the growing headache, to no avail.
When you hear Sanji take a deep breath in as if he’s about to say something, you push yourself away from the railing, having had enough of this torture. You interrupt him before he can even get a single word out. “I have to go.”
“What?” He seems confused by this sudden declaration.
“Bye.”
You give him no chance to protest, and you rush away, back into the room, leaving Sanji out on the deck.
───
It only gets progressively worse. The situation, your behavior, the thoughts you have about Sanji, everything. And you think that Sanji is starting to notice.
You do your best to never, ever cross paths with him. When he asks you questions, you give curt answers before making your escape. When he tries to start a trivial argument, you respond with disinterest… and make your escape. When you find yourself alone in a room with him or anywhere within arm’s length of him, you bring an awkward sort of vibe that no one really likes and make any and all attempt to get away from him, if only to be able to breathe and function normally again.
This goes on for about a week or two, and it’s just as painful for Sanji as it is for you, completely unbeknownst to you, because to him, your constant evasion of him is somehow worse than his and your incessant arguing. And then, by some cruel twist of fate, you find yourself with no choice but to share a hotel room with him in a city that the crew is spending the night in, and although it may have been completely unintentional and coincidental, you can’t help but to curse Usopp and Nami in your mind. Just a hunch.
You do your very, absolute best to act natural, but you’ve already failed when you decided to also act like Sanji wasn’t there. You wordlessly claim the shower first, knowing just how long Sanji spends on his personal hygiene and skin care, and although you’ve resigned yourself to pretending that he doesn’t exist, you’re still surprised he doesn’t try to fight you on this. He takes your place when you’re done, and once again, you claim the bed without first discussing it with him.
When Sanji steps out of the bathroom, you’ve already made yourself comfortable under the blankets. The man frowns at you, and yet despite the scene he’s walked in on, he still has the audacity to sit on the edge of the bed.
You sigh and click your tongue. This time, you can’t help but break the vow of silence.
“There’s a couch, you know.”
“I don’t want to sleep on the couch.”
“Well, that’s too damn bad.”
Sanji tries to shove you away from the edge in an attempt to make room for himself. “There’s enough room on the bed. Scoot over, asshole.”
You sit up, the blanket that had been covering your upper half falling to your lap. You attempt to kick him off of the bed though you’re not trying very hard. “The last thing I would want to do is share a bed with you.” And yet, the very idea makes your blood run cold in a sort of excitement that you’re unfamiliar with.
“Come on, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been acting so weird lately.”
“Weird? I’m never weird.”
Sanji eyes you for a moment, suspicious and disbelieving. “You are pretty weird.”
“What makes you say that?” At first, you had no intention of letting him respond, knowing it would most likely spark yet another pointless argument that you’re quite frankly too mentally exhausted to partake in because of all the inner turmoil you’ve been tortured by recently. Instead, you find yourself rather curious about what he would say.
“Well…” Sanji rubs the poor excuse for facial hair on his chin with the side of his finger in thought. “You’ve been acting like I have some sort of disease.”
“I feel like I’ve always acted like you have a disease, which you do.”
“Hmm…” He hums in thought as if this is a valid point, which it is, based completely on fact and logic. You find yourself starting to bite and rip at the inside of your mouth. Your gaze is fixed against his face, lit up by the orangey glow of the flickering lantern.
Sanji pushes himself off of the bed, crossing the room to rummage through his belongings, then returning with his cigarettes and some matches. This time, however, he sits on your other side where you had just been laying, closest to the bedside table where the ashtray is. You wonder if this had been intentional and calculated. The bed dips under his weight, causing you to lose your balance and fall toward him for just a moment, and when you realize just how close he’s sitting next to you now, your heart hammers against your ribcage, and your ears burn.
“Actually, though,” you say, crinkling your nose as you watch him light his cigarette in this shared, enclosed space, “I think you did catch some sort of disease.”
Sanji turns to you with an inquisitive look and a slight frown on his face. “What?”
“You’re always trying to start some shit with me but then you get all nice and somewhat tolerable sometimes.”
He averts his gaze in thought for a moment, before facing forward and away from you. He brings his cigarette up to his lips and you stare — at his lips, that is, and it takes everything in you not to acknowledge the thought that runs through your mind.
“It’s because I feel bad.”
You scoff, placing your hand behind where he sits and leaning against your arm. “Feel bad for what?”
“For blowing up on you all the time.”
Your face works into an expression of disbelief. “You feel bad?”
“Uh, yeah?” Sanji looks at you again, up and down, and you find it so hard to breathe. The room feels ten degrees hotter, and you have to push the blankets off the rest of your body, in part to make yourself look busy and give you the excuse to look away.
“W-Why do it, then?” You feel a sharp twinge of embarrassment deep within your chest when you stutter, visibly cringing, and you instinctively bring your hand that you’re not using to prop yourself up to your face to cover it, feeling just how warm your own skin is against your palm. “Ugh.”
When Sanji presses his hand to yours on the bed, careful not to burn you with his cigarette, you feel weak like you’re about to fold over and collapse. Your heart pounds in every part of your body, in your throat and down in the pit of your stomach, and you press your face harder into your palm. You think that at this point there’s no use in denying it anymore, but you refuse to go against your nature, that you feel nothing for Sanji but hatred and irritation.
“Ugh, what do you want from meee?” Your voice, muffled by your palm, comes out in a desperate groan like you’re at a complete loss. Sanji reaches out to take you by the wrist, gently prying your hand away from your face, and you don’t fight against it.
“When I look at you it just makes me want to scream at you.”
You don’t move your head but you look up at him past your eyebrows, your browline casting shadows over your eyes. “That’s… so toxic.” You find that the words have trouble leaving your throat when you feel his thumb travel up your wrist and press into your palm, and you can hardly get yourself together enough to think that you suppose that’s no different from wanting to punch him in the face for the same reason. You don’t know if your mind is playing cruel tricks on you, but you swear that in the dim lighting you see his gaze fall to your mouth.
“I know, I know. That’s why I feel bad. I just don’t know how to deal with it any other way.”
Have you always wanted to know what it’s like to kiss him? At this point, you can’t seem to recall anything at all. You think, even with Sanji’s hand pressing over yours and the other holding your wrist, there’s no way he has ever wondered the same, not even when he leans in, all the way up until he’s pressing his lips to yours, and you think, okay, maybe he’s always wanted to know, too, and this is what it takes to convince you.
You’re surprised at first, even though this was the only obvious outcome. You’re surprised and you’re shocked and you’re frozen by Sanji kissing you on the mouth that you completely forget to ask him what it is exactly he doesn’t know how to deal with, because chances are, it’s what you’ve been having to deal with as well. When his hand moves from your wrist to your face, you kiss back with an intensity like you’ve hungered for this all your life, or at least since around the time you got to know him, and he matches your intensity.
You finally start to consider that maybe you’d just assumed what you felt for him was hatred all this time — the pounding heart and the twisting stomach, the whatever else, so on and so forth — and that maybe Nami and Usopp had been right after all. Too lost in coming to your astounding revelation, you miss Sanji putting his cigarette out on the ashtray, and you’re brought back to the current situation by him swinging his leg over your lap, straddling your hips. You’re hesitant at first, but you wrap your arms around his waist, and you look up at him with the thought that it’s kind of— extremely weird that the two of you are being so intimate after all that you’ve been through together, that is, nothing good nor pleasant. It’s an odd feeling, and yet it doesn’t feel wrong, far from it.
You have the fleeting consideration that maybe Sanji is just messing with you, playing some sick, cruel joke on you and you’re waiting for him to sneer at you and make fun of you for falling for it. With shaky hands, you push his hair away from his face, exposing the eye he always likes to hide for some reason, and although you’re certainly no expert, you think that this isn’t a look someone can just fake on a whim. You suppose he wouldn’t go so far as to actually kiss you, either. And when he dips his head down to kiss you again as if he senses the worry and paranoia in you, he‘a showing you that that’s not the case at all.
You’re still unclear whether Sanji had mistaken this supposed sexual tension between the two of you for hatred, or if it had just been you and he had known how he feels all along. But you at least find solace in knowing that it had certainly not been just you who had no idea how to react to it but with hostility and violence.
Sanji undoes every thought you’ve ever had about how much you hated him, and about how you supposedly knew with one-hundred percent confidence that he had hated you just as equally. And you think about your racing heart in a new light as he moves his lips from your mouth to your jawline, then to your neck. Your hands find their way under his shirt, tracing lines across his back and down his spine, and you lightly grip his skin when you feel his tongue run across the side of your neck.
You wish you could peer into Sanji’s mind, curious about what he thinks of this situation exactly, though you bite your tongue and refrain yourself from asking. Judging by his actions, his feelings are as clear as day, though you fear hearing them spoken out loud and speaking them out loud yourself. You had found a sense of comfort in fighting with him everyday, brushing your feelings off as animosity for the man. You find this to be much easier to explain than anything else, and as proven by the past couple of weeks, any change in your way of thinking had shaken you to your core to the point you could no longer act normal, all thanks to your beloved crewmates planting the idea in your head.
Your hot breath mingles with a low moan, mixing with the warm, thick air of the hotel room as Sanji licks and sucks on your neck with the intention of marking your skin. Neither you nor Sanji had confessed anything explicit this night, just vague hints and implications, and that’s just fine by you. There’s a possibility in the future, if and when you ever find yourself comfortable with the idea of having feelings for Sanji, and you’ll follow his lead even if at this current moment, the idea seems foreign and odd to you.
There may yet be hope for someone as romantically constipated as you. For now, you allow yourself to indulge in the pleasure of Sanji’s mouth working against the skin of your neck, his body pressed flushed to yours, and you savor the taste of his tongue.