Archive of Our Own

Growing pains 

8 years old

The kid was a tightly packed bundle of fear — aggressive and jumpy like a feral cat. He could see it from the moment he first met the child, with a knife in hand and ready to fight tooth and nail for a chance at survival. A soul so fiery and full of rage as a way to disguise paralysing fear. 

Zeff didn’t know what had happened to him, but he guessed that whatever it was, it was bad. Really bad. 

He could see the fear ooze from him whenever he flinched when someone moved too fast and too close. He could hear it whenever the boy cried in the room next to his. He could feel it whenever the kid trembled behind his leg when meeting a stranger. 

Sanji was weird. A contradiction. Shy and sweet and fearful — but so irreverent, angry and impulsive. Sometimes filled with baseless confidence, cocky, even, and sometimes so insecure that a simple mistake would bring him to tears. 

It was hard to pinpoint which one was the real personality. Which one was truly Sanji? The fiery prick, or the sweet boy. He guessed the answer laid in a secret spot in between. 

Though Sanji often wore his heart on his sleeve, easily showing when he was upset, angry or happy, he was incredibly closed off. In all of the months he had known the child he hadn’t got a single ounce of information of where he came from and what had happened before he embarked The Orbit. 

No matter how bad the panic attack, no matter how hard he’d cry at night, no matter how harshly he’d pull his own hair in desperation — no matter what, the kid wouldn’t break. 

Zeff was never good with kids — hell, he was never good at anything that required emotions. So when one day Sanji’s cries got too loud during the night he didn’t know what to do with himself. He knew nothing about soothing children. But the eight year old sounded like he was in pain. Unlike the usual quiet sobbing, this time loud wails could be heard from the child’s room. 

He got up from his own bed with difficulty. His stump ached with effort — the muscles still weren’t used to the harsh limping caused by the unforgiving wood. His soft flesh was bruised and irritated from the small splinters of his makeshift prosthetic. Even Sanji — who took hits like a champ — had once complained of the rough texture after a particularly hard kick to the back of his head. 

Zeff made his way through the dark hallway, the wood of the floor and the wood of his leg made a characteristic sound when walking in the floating building. 

He could still hear the whiny sounds of the childish voice echoing across the empty hallway. 

“Eggplant?” He called from the door. This was the first time he ever acknowledged Sanji’s crying since taking him in. 

He couldn’t see in the darkness of the night — the open ocean was pitch dark at this time, not even the moon could cast light on the small room the child had claimed as his own. But he could hear how the crying died down. He could almost see how the boy was now choking down sobs. 

“What’s wrong?” He tried making his voice soft. Comforting, even. 

The child didn’t answer, like he was hoping for the figure at his door to disappear. Maybe if he stayed quiet enough, maybe if he faked sleep, then the old man would lose interest. 

“Eggplant.” He tried again, his voice a little louder. 

With a wobbly voice Sanji finally replied, “m-my legs— they really hurt.” 

There was a brief worry that crossed the older man’s face. A pang is sympathy for hearing the boy in pain. “Do you know why?” He talked while carefully making his way to the child’s bed. 

“I don’t understand,” he said between hiccups, “no one hit me today — I also didn’t fall or,” sniff, “or train too hard—” he sobbed,  “but they hurt so much.” 

Zeff’s heart warmed when he understood what was happening. The little eggplant was going through something every human had to — growing pains. It was sad to see how distressed the child was, but it was relieving to know that it was nothing serious, merely a rite of passage. 

He wondered if the boy would be tall one day, or if he’d stay a scrawny little thing. 

He sat at the end of the bed, making the wooden boards creak with the newly added weight. “Oh, eggplant,” he said with as much fondness as his voice allowed, “you’re growing.” There was a certain pride in saying it. 

“Your bones are growing, that’s why they hurt,” he explained, “is it too bad?”

His eyes tried to adjust, just vaguely seeing the silhouette of the eight year old in the dark.

There was a rustling sound, like squirming against the pillow cover. Desperate head nodding was accompanied by a wobbly, “y-yes.” 

The child’s voice sounded wet, and it was making Zeff’s usually cold heart throb. It made him want to take the child’s pain if it meant he wouldn’t cry. 

Raising Sanji had been a journey. A learning experience. Zeff didn’t remember much from his own parents, and living a life of crime, he never had time to nurture loving relationships. 

He guessed it was similar for Sanji, he clearly never had a family that loved him, so he moved solely on instinct and childish whims – never knowing how to ask for the basic emotional needs all children have. 

They were both navigating blind, desperately trying to find the ground they felt comfortable standing in — if it even exists.

Zeff knew he couldn’t just treat the boy that was now basically his son as any other cook at the Baratie, or like one of his subordinates from when he was a pirate. In his own way, he had to treat him as what he was: a child. 

“I’ll get you something for the pain, okay?” 

Moving around with no light and a wooden leg was challenging, but that had never stopped him before. His room wasn’t too far from Sanji’s. He stumbled blindly until he finally crashed against the shelf where he stored his personal stash of liquor – a few he got for himself, and a few he took back from the main kitchen. They were good bottles that shouldn’t be wasted on undertrained and unrefined palates. 

The bottle of whisky was easy to find, he had taken a shot before going to bed, leaving the half-empty bottle easy to reach. 

The sound of limping could be heard walking back to the child’s room. 

He sighed with effort when he sat back down on the bed. Learning how to walk again after months of starvation had been very hard on his body. He could still feel the aftereffect of the months of physical and psychological torture he went through on that rock. He wondered if Sanji felt them too – the crippling pain of the skin of your abdomen sticking to your spine from how empty your guts were. He shuddered at the memory. Why was he thinking about that now?

“Here, eggplant,” he spoke, offering a small glass to Sanji. “Sit up so you can drink.” 

The boy obeyed, still sniffling, “what is that?” His voice was wet and tiny. 

“It’ll make you feel better, but it won’t taste good.” 

The boy grabbed the small cup with two hands, careful not to spill it in the dark, “it smells so bad,” he complained in a whiny tone. 

Zeff reached out blindly, carefully feeling for where the child’s hands were. He grabbed the circumference of his hands easily with one hand. His other hand found Sanji’s face, which he gripped not so gently, cupping his chin and blocking his nose, making his mouth open like a fish’s. With the boy immobilised he shoved the liquor in his mouth.

The child swallowed with a grimace and Zeff let go of his face. 

“It wasn’t that bad, was it, eggplant?” He said almost mockingly.

“Why did you do that?!” Sanji coughed at the strong taste. “That was awful!” He complained. 

“You wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t!” 

“Would too!” 

Zeff only laughed at that. Sanji was annoying, but Zeff found him very endearing. The more time passed the more Zeff grew fond of the boy. 

He patted Sanji’s head, ruffling his hair in the process – a sign of endearment. 

“Try to get some sleep, Eggplant, you’ll feel better in a bit.” 

Kicks

10 years old

Dinner service was always the most stressful. Clients buzzed in and out, servers filled the order rack with an overwhelming amount of teared pieces of paper, cooks yelled at each other, the pots clattered together. It was enough to make anyone snap. 

Zeff was made for it. Made for the challenge. Though it sometimes got the best of him. Sometimes even the screech of rubber against tile from a server scramming around was enough to make him tick. 

And when Zeff snapped, he kicked. Be it to the back of the knees, to the chest, to the shins, to the back of the head or straight in the face. Zeff kicked. 

It was a habit developed by years of living with ragged men at sea. Being captain was no easy job and Zeff was not a tender person. He was rough around the edges. Short tempered. 

The two years he had spent with Sanji as his child had mellowed him. The conscious thought that the person who stood in front of him was only a child stopped him from his usually more aggressive reactions to mundane situations. 

He had started to master the art of taking deep breaths whenever the kid made a mistake. This wasn’t an adult pirate – it was a child . Sanji was barely starting to be a person of his own, and Zeff tried to be aware of that. 

But when the clattering of pots got too loud, when the yells of chefs became common and when the rushing of servers became the norm, Zeff heard the shattering of porcelain.

He turned to the sound. Face red with fury. There stood the child with a pile of shattered plates resting at his feet. He must’ve been carrying them to the drying racks after washing them. 

It wasn’t the first time it happened. In a kitchen as big as the one in The Baratie, broken crockery was a common occurrence. Especially when a ten year old was in charge of washing the dishes. 

Sanji always ended up being reprimanded. Zeff would yell at him every single time it happened. And Sanji would look him straight in the eye – as if he was saying he wasn’t scared of Zeff’s loud voice. It was refreshing to see how Sanji had gone from a scared easy crier, to a defiant little prick. Zeff was almost proud of his progress. 

But that night was not a night of fatherly love or nostalgic remembrance. That night everything was wrong.

Before he even knew it he had landed a kick to the side of Sanji’s abdomen. Fast and hard. 

The kid was concerningly good at handling pain. He always took Zeff’s kicks with little reaction. Just like when the older man yelled, Sanji would look him straight in the eyes, even if his own were blurry with stubborn tears. But he would not yield. Acting as if he hadn’t felt a thing. Though it was true Zeff never hit him nearly as hard as he hit the adult cooks in the kitchen. Until that day. 

The child crumbled like the pile of plates that now laid next to the curled body of the boy. Sanji desperately clung at his ribs while he gasped for air – the kick had knocked the wind out of him. 

A semblance of guilt planted in Zeff’s chest. A sort of worry seeing that this time the kid didn’t handle the blow like he had expected him to. A realisation that he didn’t measure his strength made his face hot with something other than anger. 

The whole kitchen froze at the strangled sound that came out of the child’s throat. Everyone turned to see the sobbing mess that was now Sanji.

The boy squirmed in pain while holding his chest, unconsciously rubbing his clothed legs against the small shards of porcelain that had scattered across the floor. 

Zeff remained frozen for a few moments. Taking in the view. Letting what he had just done sink in. 

“Oi,” Zeff called, “get up.” It sounded cold, harsh, even. 

The kid merely twitched. 

“Oi,” he tried again with more urgency. 

His hands started to get clammy at the lack of response, “kid, get up.” 

He moved towards the crying body of the child and crouched next to it. He tried to soothe his hand against Sanji’s forehead, but Sanji flinched. Hard. 

Something broke inside Zeff at the sight. He knew that before him Sanji had a childhood full of pain, and he, to the best of his abilities, had tried to shelter Sanji from it. In his own way. 

But now, that a blow had actually hurt Sanji, how was he any different from the people that had abused him before? 

The kid was afraid of him. He had flinched at his mere presence – just like he did when they first met, just like he did for the first few months until he finally understood he wasn’t in danger when he was around Zeff. 

The thought was making him sick. 

He looked around the kitchen, seeing his employees transfixed on the squirming boy. 

“Get back to work, ya bastards!” He yelled. Angry – at everything, at himself. 

He turned back to Sanji, who was now catching his breath, still quietly crying. 

“Eggplant,” he spoke softly now, “eggplant are you alright?” He reached out to try and touch the child’s arm to help him sit up, but Sanji scrambled away from him.

The sight of the short legs struggling against sharp pieces of porcelain made him cringe. 

“Stay away from me,” Sanji cried. 

Zeff’s heart felt like it was being squeezed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tried to reason, “it was just a kick.”

He reached out one last time to try and comfort his son. But the kid flinched away from his touch. 

“No!” He insisted. 

It took a couple of seconds of heavy breathing and grunting before Sanji stood up and left. 

Zeff was left staring at the shattered plates on the floor, he had to somehow pick up the pieces of what had been broken that night. 

A stack of crockery… a bond of trust… a silent promise. 

Where could he even start?

“Someone come clean this mess up now!” He ordered. 

The rest of the shift was quiet without the high ring of the kid’s voice. 

It took days for Sanji to go back to normal. 

Fishing

13 years old

Living in the middle of the ocean has its perks — beautiful mornings with fresh air and bright sun is one of them. Having absolutely nothing to do on days off isn’t one of them. Especially when you have a child whining about boredom at every waking second. 

Zeff wouldn't mind a slow day — a day to relax, maybe even sleep in. But it was absolutely impossible with the bundle of anxious energy that was Sanji. The child could not, for the life of him, stay still. It was like he was physically unable to relax. 

“Eggplant, can’t you just — I don’t know — take a fucking nap?” Zeff asked at ten in the morning, already annoyed beyond his limits, “it’s an off day, we’re supposed to be resting.” He tried reasoning with the child. 

“I hate days off,” Sanji complained. And it was true, the last time he spent a day doing nothing was when he was recovering from months of starvation. And before that he’d been trapped in a cell with nothing to do aside from waiting for the moment his tormentors would pay him a visit — so yeah, the kid had good reason to not like days off. Even at a young age, having nothing to distract him from his thoughts was dangerous. 

Zeff knew as much. 

“I know, Eggplant,” he sighed. God, out of all of the children, you had to give me the one who can’t fucking chill. 

Zeff’s face was tired, his eye sockets were sunken and his smile lines seemed deeper. Time was being hard on his body. 

There was no one else who could entertain the child. Not that Zeff would want to delegate the responsibility to another person. Though he did wish for a moment of tranquillity, he guessed he would get that soon enough, when Sanji was older. The thought was bittersweet. 

Sanji looked at him with an intense expression, waiting for confirmation that they were indeed doing something that day. He had been awake for four hours and his hands were itching to do something. 

“Do you want to go fishing?”

The enormous smile that bloomed on the boy’s face was enough confirmation. 

They took a small wooden boat that was always tied to a side of the restaurant. It was used every morning to catch fresh fish to serve. 

But it wasn’t often that Zeff and Sanji used it together. The child was almost vibrating with excitement. Oh how he loved things like this. 

There was a certain nervousness that came from lack of duty, no training, no work, no responsibilities. But it was also refreshing to know that Zeff didn’t need an excuse to spend time with him. They enjoyed each other’s company as much as they both hated to admit it. 

Sanji was rapidly growing. Zeff started to realise why having children is so expensive — the little shit was outgrowing uniforms and shoes like he enjoyed making Zeff buy new ones. Not to mention the amount of food he started to consume after reaching the ripe age of twelve. Puberty was about to hit Sanji like a train and Zeff was not looking forward to that. 

He had heard a lot of horror stories about it, and Sanji was no easy person, he knew his teenage years were going to be disastrous. But he was ready for the challenge, he even dared to say he was excited, mainly because he was really curious to see the type of adult Sanji would become. 

He never entertained the thought of having children, but now that he had one, he understood the swelling feeling of pride when you see glimpses of yourself in a person you nurtured to grow. He saw himself in every kick, in every dish, in every swear word. He saw himself in the disciplined perfectionism that Sanji carried wherever he went. What an honour it is to let yourself live through someone you’ve given everything to. 

The small boat swayed from side to side, it was lulled by the waves. The feeling was soothing and familiar. The fresh smell of salty mist was revitalising. Oh how Zeff loved the ocean. 

He turned to see Sanji, who was rowing diligently. The kid had a smile that glittered in the sun. His skin was moist with sweat, making it look shiny. In the light of the morning the boy simply looks golden, like he glowed. 

It was fitting, Zeff thought, it suit Sanji to resemble the sun. 

“You know,” the boy spoke, and his voice was shaky from the rowing. “You should hire a female cook.” 

Zeff snorted, out of everything that could come out of Sanji’s mouth, he wasn’t expecting that — though he probably should have. 

“Forget it.” 

“Hear me out!” 

“It’s not going to happen.” 

“Shh! Just listen!” The boy insisted, “I just think the boys would benefit from some feminine energy,” the child talked as if he was an expert on the topic. It was funny, really. 

“So you can drool all over the counters? Keep on dreaming, Eggplant.” 

Sanji stopped rowing, “just think about it!” He reasoned. 

“Forget about it! You know why I don’t hire women.”

The child sighed, an overly dramatic exaggerated sigh, “I know! But you can make an exception! She wouldn’t piss you off, you wouldn’t need to kick her!” 

Zeff laughed loudly, this kid really was something else. 

“Your little heart would explode with a woman around at all times.”

“It wouldn’t!” Sanji’s voice cracked.

Zeff laughed louder, and the boat seemed to shake with the thunder of his laugh. 

Moments like this, Zeff really felt like he and Sanji were father and son. Maybe the boy didn’t share his name, maybe the boy didn’t share his face, but there was a burning fire in their souls that mimicked each other as if they were meant to encounter sooner or later. 

Zeff could see in the child’s eyes the same stare he had when he too was just a boy. 

“You need to focus, Eggplant, I need you at your sharpest for when you find the All Blue.” 

This caught Sanji’s attention. 

“When you’re old enough and leave the Baratie to find it, you’re gonna thank me.” 

Sanji felt like he would never be old enough to leave. Embark a boat and leave Zeff, the man who had sacrificed his well-being for him? It was unthinkable. Even before he was conscious enough to realise it, Sanji had made the decision to abandon everything to stay next to Zeff. There wasn’t enough time in the world for the boy to repay his debt. 

Little did he know years later Zeff would have to find himself doing the impossible for Sanji to leave the goddamned restaurant behind to follow his dream. 

Masculinity

16 years old 

Sanji looked with big curious eyes from his spot in the kitchen to a table across the room. The small opening where plates were usually placed so servers could take without entering the kitchen was perfect for peeping at the customers whenever he was bored. He caught glimpses of a man who was slowly nursing a glass of white wine. 

The sixteen year old could feel his face go red at the image. The man was wearing a frilly white shirt that exposed his collarbones, his skin glistened with the yellow light of the restaurant. His neck and ears were adorned with pearls and his face was delicately painted — his eyes lined, his cheeks blushed and his lips tinted. 

Though the image was off putting at first he couldn’t look away, and he stared for long enough until the man became so pretty . 

Something hot and tingly settled at the pit of his stomach. A morbid feeling of curiosity— a rush of sorts. Similar to the sensation he got when he saw a beautiful woman, but so foreign and new he didn’t know what to make of it. 

An image of himself dressed liked that flashed while he was focused on cutting chives. The bright green against the wooden cutting board blurred in the background of his mind. The image in front of his eyes diluted in the fantasy of pearls and ruffles and pretty eyes. 

A sense of urgency settled in his bones, an itch he couldn't quite scratch from afar, he was desperate to approach, desperate to see. He was on kitchen duty that night — but he could always piss Zeff off so he would force him to wait tables, as a waiter he could strike up a conversation, he could offer some wine, he could listen to the voice that was lost behind all the other noises in the restaurant. He wondered if it was low and smooth, like honey – or deep and sultry like wine, or maybe even high and sweet, like caramel. 

Curiosity pooled so heavily in his stomach he felt it weighing him down. Cutting chives was becoming harder with the newfound urgency of his hands and his body. He had to go.

Pissing Zeff off was going to take too long, what if the person only came for some wine? He couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. 

He hurriedly scrambled across the kitchen to see the small pieces of paper that were hung on a metal wire over one of the ovens. His eyes frantically scanned for the order placed by table 6 – white flashes of messy scribbles that he had become an expert at deciphering overwhelmed his sight until he finally saw it: Octopus Carpaccio. 

Oh it fit him perfectly. An elegant, delicious meal for the gorgeous man at table six. 

Sanji wasted no time ripping the paper off the rack and got himself to work. 

He chose a beautiful plum coloured octopus that had been caught fresh that very morning. He had cleaned it himself before opening hours. It was perfect. 

He cut the strips dangerously thin, with a knife so sharp he barely had to make any pressure to slice the meat. 

Olive oil, balsamic vinegar reduction, lemon juice, parmesan cheese, parsley — the flavours came together like a well orchestrated symphony.

In the end, Sanji was proud of his work. The plate looked gorgeous, fit for the man at table six. 

Fuck it, he thought, I’ll bring it to him myself. And so he did. 

He straightened his shirt, checked his sleeves, arranged his tie, and grabbed the plate. He placed it on a metal tray along with a bottle of the same white wine that was written on the now torn paper that rested in his pocket. 

He made his way elegantly and smoothly through the dining hall of The Baratie. 

It felt like a dream, getting closer to the person who had lived in his mind throughout the evening. The image he had made in his head from the quick glances he managed to catch, refreshed at the closer look. He was even prettier up close. 

With a warm voice – completely different to what Sanji had imagined. Not too deep, not too high. It had an addictive ring to it. 

“Oh thank you,” the man said, attention away from his wine, “this looks delicious.” 

Sanji felt like he could melt at any moment. He had the urge to boast about how he’d made it himself, and wanted to deliver it personally – but something stopped him. It felt too flirty, which he usually was, but the feelings the person in front of him had ignited in his chest were far too confusing. Was it attraction? Admiration? Curiosity? He couldn’t tell, and that scared him. 

He opted to give him a wide smile, “hope you enjoy it.” 

He caught a glimpse of the almost empty glass of wine that sat next to the perfectly folded napkin, “allow me to refill that for you.” 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” the man said sincerely. 

Sanji felt his knees going weak. 

He poured the expensive liquor with practised expertise. 

“Here you go,” he said while placing the cup in the exact same spot it was before. 

He took the opportunity to look into the man’s eyes. He felt his cheeks go warm. 

The person in front of him gave Sanji a genuine smile. A soft expression of gratitude and maybe of realisation. It was clear the very young waiter was curious about who he was serving. It wasn’t rare for a person like him to get a reaction like that. 

“That would be all, thank you, dear,” the warm voice spoke again. 

Sanji took that as his cue to leave, but not before mumbling out a shy, “I-I really like your makeup.” 

It was a cheap compliment. Very different from his drawn out poetic speeches or elaborate eulogies – but it was sincere. 

The man gave him a slight chuckle and a squint of eyes – an endearing expression. It was a cute interaction. Innocent. 

Sanji returned to the kitchen with his heart beating against his ribcage like it was trying to break it. 

He looked down at his empty working station, the tile of the counter smiled back to his flushed cheeks. His breathing was fast, trying to catch up with his heart. 

The situation left him feeling giddy. Energised. He had never entertained the thought of appreciating beauty in a man — he tended to be weary of them — but the encounter had made him reevaluate his position. 

Zeff had raised him with a very strong distinction between men and women. He had stressed more times than Sanji could remember how women should be taken care of, how they were fragile and sacred. Something to be cherished and treasured. 

Sanji grew up thinking that beauty and sweetness was something that could only be associated with women. But maybe Zeff was wrong — the world is so vast and big, so full of mysteries, why couldn’t there be something else? 

Zeff watched his idiot son from across the kitchen. The blond was going heart-eyed at nothing. Was there a young woman outside? Is that why he went out of the kitchen to serve a plate himself? Sanji was stupid enough to be drooling about that on the job. 

“Oi, eggplant! Get back to work.” 

Sanji straightened like he had been caught. 

Zeff snickered at that. He wondered which lady had caught Sanji’s eye that night. He always found it entertaining to see which new woman had his son blushing just by her presence. 

Curiosity got the better of him after a few minutes of seeing Sanji pink with glee. What sort of goddess was out there that had the young man smiling like an idiot?

He managed to catch a server by the sleeve of his shirt while he was dropping off some dirty dishes. 

“Which table did Sanji serve just now?” He asked in a hushed tone. 

Every member of the staff was familiar with the dynamic by this point. Sanji flirting with customers was a very common occurrence. 

“Hmm… the Octopus Carpaccio at table 6, sir,” The young man answered. 

Zeff smiled, letting go of the fabric and letting his employee leave. 

Table six, huh?

It didn’t take long for the old man to peep his head into the dining room. His eyes rapidly scanned the tables. He knew the numbers by heart. 

His gaze landed on table six rather quickly, and the sight shocked him. There was no beautiful young woman or interesting mature lady. There was no woman at the table at all. Sitting, drinking a glass of wine was a very effeminate man. 

Zeff felt his blood run cold. 

In his years owning a restaurant he had seen all types of customers. He had come to terms with the fact that people were as diverse as the world itself. But Sanji? 

Everything he had ever lived for screamed at him that it mustn’t be true. That he was confusing tables. He scanned the restaurant again, and again, and again. No young woman in sight. A couple pirates, a couple merchants, a couple sailors. 

He looked at the table again, spotting the carpaccio. There was no doubt. Sanji was going heart-eyed for the man at table 6. 

He stormed back to the kitchen where Sanji was still working. 

He didn’t know if it was anger, fear or a sick disappointment. But a feeling was flooding the fibres that made up his body. It sunk into his pores and made his skin itch. 

He grabbed Sanji by the neck of the shirt and dragged him out of the kitchen into the quarters without a single word spoken. 

The cooks looked at each other and whispered but swiftly got back to work after a nasty glare from Zeff. 

Sanji struggled against the hold, “oi what’s wrong with you, you shitty old man?!” 

He took a hold of Zeff’s wrist, “let me go!” 

Zeff carelessly let go of Sanji’s shirt. 

“What the fuck was that?!” Sanji asked. 

Before the young man could continue complaining Zeff slapped him hard across the face. 

A slap so unexpected it prompted a gasp out of Sanji’s lips. Zeff who had taught him to never use his hands to fight, Zeff who had always shown him equal treatment as a sign of respect, was now slapping him away from prying eyes. 

Sanji brought his hand up to his stinging cheek in shock. This had never happened before. 

“Really, Sanji?! A man?!” 

Everything clicked in the blond’s head. 

It took him a few seconds to realise that Zeff was ashamed — Zeff who never shied away from embarrassing him and telling him off in front of the rest of the staff had dragged him to the privacy of their quarters to prop a slap across his face. 

The thought made Sanji’s throat close with anguish. 

“Don’t ever let me catch you trying to do something like this again, ever.” His voice was cold and harsh and it felt like daggers going through Sanji’s heart. Every word that was uttered out of the wrinkled lips sent an agonising wave of pain through the young man. 

“You’re a man , Sanji, act like it .” 

With that Zeff left the room. 

He felt like a child again, running back to his room with tears in his eyes. He felt so small climbing under the covers to cry. And at that moment he noticed the crippling fear — what would it be of him if Zeff too rejected him? If Zeff too wanted to get rid of him? If Zeff too was ashamed to call him his son? 

Sanji made a vow to himself that day — to swallow down the thick curiosity that sometimes crept up on him, to never allow himself to even entertain the thought of betraying the masculinity Zeff had worked so hard to build. 

Even if it meant betraying himself. As long as he wasn’t betraying the only man who had been a father to him it’d be worth it.

A feeling of shame settled deep in his bones, deep in his chest, so sour it stung uncomfortably under his skin. How could he be so stupid? What was he thinking? Ever since puberty hit he had been a ladies man, a manly man, a gentleman — what on earth compelled him to think that was a good idea? 

Never again. He swore. Never again.