Archive of Our Own

“I didn't know you know how to cut hair,” Koby says, watching Sanji lay out his supplies on the bathroom counter. 

“I don't,” Sanji says cheerfully. “Or at least, I haven't before. But I can julienne a farm’s worth of vegetables in about thirty seconds, and fixing your bangs has to be less complicated than that. I'm good with a knife, and scissors are just two knives screwed together, right?”

Koby doesn't look terribly reassured, but he doesn't argue. He woke Sanji up in a panic half an hour ago, fighting back tears as he brandished a pair of kitchen scissors in one hand and a cut-off pink ponytail in the other. His hair falls in a choppy, uneven bob now, a good three inches longer on one side than the other, and he'd cried even harder when Sanji offered to clean it up before they had to go downstairs to help with brunch prep. 

His eyes are still red, but he manages a smile. “I guess you can't mess it up worse than I did, huh?”

“That's the spirit,” Sanji says, eyeing Koby critically as he decides what to do first. He's got two pairs of scissors, a straight razor, and a spray bottle full of water. He's not entirely sure what difference it makes for the hair to be wet while he cuts it, but he knows the stylist who does his whenever she stops by for a meal always spritzes it with water before she even picks up the scissors. Sanji trusts the process. “Do you have anything particular you wanted for it?”

“Not girly?” Koby asks uncertainly, and Sanji shrugs and picks up the larger pair of scissors. 

“All right. Take your glasses off; I don't want to scratch them by accident.”

Koby obediently takes his glasses off and leans forward to set them on the counter, blinking as his eyes adjust. Sanji waits for him to settle back on the chair they dragged in here, then he sets to work, dampening Koby’s hair and starting to trim up the worst of the uneven ends. If he can get it all to the same length, it should be easier to aim for an actual style. 

It's just that getting it all to the same length is turning out to be… a little trickier than he anticipated. 

“I didn't realize how many cowlicks you have,” he says, then bites the tip of his tongue in concentration as he tries to snip off just a short amount of hair this time. He switched to the smaller scissors a minute ago, when he realized just what an alarming quantity of hair disappeared with every chop of the meat scissors he grabbed from the kitchen, but even this pair still leaves a jagged, uneven edge in Koby's hair. 

“Oh, yeah,” Koby says. “That's why I always just kept it pulled back. It sticks out a lot, otherwise.”

Sanji nods a few times and avoids looking in the mirror. He doesn't know if he can handle looking directly at Koby’s reflection. “Right, yeah, that makes sense. Hey, did you like the sort of asymmetrical thing from before?”

Koby frowns and cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. Sanji bites back a swear as the movement tugs the lock of hair he's holding and makes an already uneven cut worse. “I mean… no? It looked messy. It was pretty obvious I did it myself.”

“Well yeah, but, you know. I think once it's cleaned up a little, that sort of choppy, uneven look is pretty cool. You know, avant garde. What do you think?”

Sanji can hear his voice going more high pitched as he talks, regardless of how hard he tries to keep it steady and even. He really, really needs Koby to say he wants it uneven, because cutting hair is actually nothing like cutting vegetables. Sanji can't get the sides even as hard as he tries, and he's running out of hair to work with as every attempt to even it out just makes it lopsided in a different direction. 

Koby tilts his head back to frown up at him. “Are you okay?”

“I'm great,” Sanji says, with a smile that feels a little manic. “So, thoughts on a cool, trendsetting, cutting edge haircut?”

“I kind of just want something plain,” Koby says hesitantly. “I don't want to stand out.”

“Right,” Sanji says, swallowing as Koby looks back down. “Yeah, that makes sense. We’ll just… give you a plain, perfectly normal haircut.”

Crew cuts are normal, right?

He finally admits defeat a minute later, when Koby glances down and jumps a little. “Holy shit,” he says, squinting at the floor, and Sanji follows his gaze to the piles of pink hair around him. “I didn't realize you'd cut so much.” He reaches up to feel his head, and Sanji winces and carefully pushes his hand away with a single finger before he can. 

“Okay, so,” he says, then groans and sets the scissors down on the counter and picks up Koby’s glasses instead. He turns and leans against the counter, placing himself conveniently between Koby and the mirror as he fiddles nervously with Koby’s glasses. “So, um, as it turns out, chopping carrots is not that much like cutting hair?”

Koby frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there's maybe a reason that people pay professionals to do this,” Sanji says. “Instead of just sort of trying to do it themselves.”

Koby’s eyes narrow. “Can I have my glasses?”

“It'll grow back?” Sanji says, defeated, but he hands them over and steps out of the way, bracing himself for–

“What the hell, Sanji?”

“I am so sorry,”  Sanji says, cringing and covering his face so he won't have to see how shocked Koby looks, mouth hanging open as he turns his head back and forth to look at the wreck Sanji made of his hair. He might as well have used a blender to cut it. “I kept trying to fix it but it just made it worse I swear I wasn't trying to fuck it up this bad on purpose–”

For a moment, he thinks Koby’s crying again, and his heart sinks to the bottom of the ocean. But then Koby makes the noise again, gasping, and Sanji peeks through his fingers to look at him, then drops his hands entirely, gaping at him. 

In the month since Koby came to Baratie, Sanji’s seen him smile with varying amounts of sincerity, he's gotten the occasional giggle or snicker out of him, but he's never heard him laugh before. He's sagging in the chair now, arms wrapped around his middle as he wheezes, clearly trying not to get too loud but unable to help it. 

“It's so bad,” he gasps, shoulder shaking and voice going squeaky with laughter. “How is it so bad? How did you do that?”

“I don't know,” Sanji groans, but as guilty as he feels, he can't help the reluctant smile spreading across his face as Koby wipes tears out of his eyes, laughing so hard he's wheezing. “I'm so sorry.”

“I mean–” Koby cuts himself off, giggling too hard to speak, and shoots Sanji an incredulous grin in the mirror. “It worked. I don't really look like a girl. Mostly ‘cause I barely look human, but–”

Sanji laughs now too, covering his face again. “I'm sorry. I swear, I thought I could do this. It always looks so easy.”

“I'm just gonna have to shave it at this point,” Koby says, poking at his head and sneezing when it knocks a few stray hairs loose. That sets off another round of snorting laughter, and Sanji can't hold onto his composure this time, leaning back against the wall when his legs threaten to give out on him. 

“How?” Koby asks again. 

“I don't know,” Sanji cries. He gives up on staying upright when his stomach starts to ache from suppressed laughter, sliding down the wall until he reaches the floor. Koby joins him a minute later when he laughs so hard he nearly topples out of the chair. 

They try to stay quiet, all too aware of Zeff and the other staff down the hall, but it's a lost cause; every time they make eye contact or look at the mess of pink hair on the ground—or on Koby’s head—it just sets them off again. Zeff, inevitably, comes stomping down the hall a few minutes later, in his stupid old man pajamas with his mustache out of its usual tight braid. His face is set in a scowl when he shoves the door open, clearly prepared to start yelling at them for waking him up, but he freezes on the spot when he sees the two of them staring up at him from the floor, surrounded by pink hair that should, by all rights, still be on Koby’s hand. 

Predictably, he turns to Sanji. “The fuck did you do, little eggplant?”

Sanji’s jaw drops in outrage. “I– why do you assume it's my fault?”

Koby, who froze up automatically when Zeff stepped in, burst out laughing again and scoops up a loose handful of hair to throw at him. “It is your fault!”

“You started it! I'm not the one who cut off your ponytail!”

“No, you just cut off all the rest of my hair!”

Koby looks like he's got mange, and they're both going to be exhausted at work later today. It's the best night Sanji can remember having at Baratie in months.

Getting Koby worked up to regular meals again was a slow, painful process. Sanji and Zeff watched him like hawks at first to make sure he ate enough, then had to back off when their attention only made him so nervous his steadily growing appetite disappeared. They'd had to trust him when he said he ate, and Sanji had been convinced for a while that Koby was lying, considering he somehow lost weight after getting to Baratie and starting to eat regular meals. 

Another refeeding thing, Zeff told him when Sanji got nervous about it. Some more of the bullshit that Sanji should remember but can't. 

Koby loses a few pounds he can't really afford to, but he gains them back almost as quickly, and more besides; within a few months, he's up to a mostly healthy weight for a sixteen-year-old. Sanji wouldn't mind seeing him eat more—and he knows Zeff feels the same way—but Koby still gets nervous about people monitoring his food. Besides, anything other than the half-starved kid he was when he showed up here five months ago is a win. 

At least, Sanji assumes it is. Koby, in a move Sanji really shouldn't be surprised by anymore, makes things a little more complicated. 

“Are you okay?” Sanji asks, frowning at him across the kitchen. Koby’s panting as he scrubs at a pot. They take some elbow grease to clean, sure, but Koby only just started at it. Sanji doesn't think he should be gasping for breath like that so quickly. 

“Yeah,” Koby says shortly. “‘M fine.”

Sanji squints. “Are you sure? You're looking kind of red.”

“Am not,” Koby says. 

Patty’s closer than Sanji, stepping up to the sink to drop a cookie sheet onto Koby’s pile of dirty dishes. “No, he's right. You look like an actual tomato.”

“Thanks, Patty,” Koby says, exasperated. “You're so nice.”

Patty shrugs and heads back to his station. Sanji keeps watching Koby out of the corner of his eye as he goes back to his prep work, trying to put a finger on what's wrong without pestering Koby and making him feel cornered. Almost half a year at Baratie has got him a thousand times more comfortable than when he started out, but he's not that far from the skittish kid he came here as. It doesn't take much to scare him. 

He's red faced and sweating after only a few minutes at the sink, reaching up to wipe his face every few minutes. It's hot in the kitchen, sure, and scrubbing a brunch rush’s worth of food is no easy task, but it's not normal for Koby to be huffing and puffing this hard so quickly. He's clearly trying to hide it, but Sanji doesn't miss the way his tongue is almost hanging out of his mouth as he pants, or how every so often he has to stand up straight, head tilted back so he can suck in a deep breath. Sanji lets it go on longer than he'd like to, but Koby’s as stubborn as he is nervous, and if Sanji pushes too hard it won't do anything but make him clam up. 

Eventually, though, Koby stumbles as he goes to pick up another stack of dishes. He just barely catches himself on the lip of the sink, arms locked and head hanging as he braces himself upright. Sanji’s across the kitchen a second later, leaning over next to him to look at his face, one hand hovering over his back. 

“Koby,” he says, and Koby waves vaguely at him without looking up. This close, Sanji can hear how labored his breathing is, like he's desperately trying to suck in a breath and can't quite manage it. 

“‘M fine,” he says again, even less convincing than before. “Just– I just need a minute. I'm fine.”

“You need to sit down?” Sanji asks. Koby hesitates, then his shoulders slump as he nods. Sanji meets Carne’s eyes across the room and jerks his head towards the steaks he was tenderizing; Carne nods and takes over without a word while Sanji ushers Koby towards the table and chairs in the corner. 

Koby winces as he sits down, pressing his hand to his ribs. Sanji tries not to look too suspicious as he pours him a glass of water. 

“Stop hovering,” Koby mutters once he's drained half of it in one long pull. “I'm fine. It's just muggy today.”

He's not wrong; it's an unusually warm and miserably humid day for this late in the year, but it's not bad enough that Koby should look like he just ran a few dozen laps around the ship. It's not like the rest of them are enjoying the heat, but no one else seems to be feeling it as bad as Koby. 

“Are you sick?” Sanji asks. Koby doesn't deign to answer, just rolls his eyes and sips at his water. “Let me feel your forehead.”

“I'm not sick!” Koby says irritably, swatting Sanji's hand away. “I'm fine, it's not contagious.”

“What's not contagious?” Sanji asks, and Koby's mouth shuts with a click. 

“Nothing.”

“One day I'm gonna teach you how to lie,” Sanji says dryly. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Koby says. He's even redder now, not with exertion, but embarrassment, and he stares down at his glass instead of meeting Sanji’s eyes. “No, I'm just… it's just that it's hot. I was having a hard time catching my breath. That's all.”

His eyes flick ever-so-quickly past Sanji towards the rest of the kitchen. Without having to look, Sanji is entirely certain that everyone within earshot is desperately trying to listen in on this conversation. It's not like he blames them—entertainment is scarce for a staff of the same thirty people stuck on a boat together, and Sanji trades in gossip as much as anyone else here—but Koby's never going to tell him if he thinks people are listening. 

“Let's step outside for a second,” he suggests. “Get you some fresh air, see if that helps.”

“Fine,” Koby mutters, and he slinks after Sanji when he leads him out onto the dock and far enough away from the doors and windows that they won't be overheard. It's not that much cooler out here, but there is a breeze, at least, which helps. 

“All right, talk,” Sanji says flatly, and Koby huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“It's fine, it's just– I think I messed something up a little, but I'll do it better tomorrow so this won't happen again. I was already gonna fix it on my break, you just freaked out immediately.”

“Do you know what freaking out is?” Sanji asks, amused. “You looked like you were about to pass out. Forget the fact that I don't want you to be sick anyways, I'm in charge of that kitchen when Zeff’s not here. Can't have our chore boy about to collapse from the heat. I'm trying to look out for you.”

Koby groans and hugs himself a little tighter. “Yeah, I know,” he says, strained. “And it's– I really appreciate it, I do, it's just…”

He trails off, and Sanji frowns. Koby doesn't just look uncomfortable, the way he always does with too much attention. He looks upset. 

“I've been gaining weight,” he finally mutters. 

“I know,” Sanji says slowly. “You knew that's what we were trying to do. That's a good thing, right?”

“No, it is,” Koby says. “I know it is, I'm glad and all. It's not like I miss being hungry all the time. It's just that– I've been gaining weight in, uh, in places I haven't before, and it's…”

He peeks up at Sanji, who stares back at him, mystified. He's not sure why Koby would be upset about gaining weight—as far as he's concerned, the kid could use every extra pound he can get—until Koby grimaces and lets go of himself with one arm to gesture vaguely at his chest. 

Sanji's eyes go wide. “Oh. Oh. Oh, shit, really?”

“It's never been a problem before,” Koby says, blinking back tears. “I thought I just didn't really have any? But now I do and a customer called me Miss yesterday and I don't want that and–” His shoulders hitch. “I was just trying to make them flat.”

Okay. Sanji is, admittedly, a little out of his depth here, but he wasn't lying earlier. With Zeff out for a few days shopping for a new poultry supplier after their old one got busted by the Marines (“embezzlement,” Zeff had called it, which is, to Sanji’s understanding, a less interesting form of piracy), taking care of the restaurant and the people who work there is Sanji's job.

And taking care of Koby is always his job.

“Flat how?” he asks, trying not to let on how awkward he feels about this. It's one thing to be vaguely aware that Koby's built a little differently than him. It's another thing entirely to have a conversation about Koby’s growing breasts. 

Koby shrugs. He looks just as uncomfortable as Sanji, which is some kind of relief. “The wrap that we use to store leftovers?” he says. “I brought a roll up to our room and just kind of…” He makes a few small circles with his finger. “I just think I did it a little too tight, is all.”

Sanji frowns. The plastic wrap that they use to cover open containers and wrap up meat to cook later is pretty thin, but multiple layers over each other form a thick, airtight seal, stiff and inflexible. He guesses it would work for what Koby needs, but he can't imagine it's comfortable. 

“Can I see?” he asks. Kobys eyes go wide, and Sanji quickly adds, “Not all of it! Just, you know.” He mines lifting the hem of his shirt. “If it's tight enough you can't breathe right. I could maybe help… adjust it?”

Koby grimaces, but he nods and hooks his fingers in the bottom of his t-shirt and tugs it up just past his belly button. “I tried to just do it around my chest, but it wouldn't stay up so I went down to–”

“Holy shit.”

Koby flinches, and Sanji pulls his hands back where he had started to reach for him automatically, biting back a stream of more colorful curses. “I told you it's too tight,” Koby says. His fingers have gone white-knuckled around his shirt, but he doesn't drop it.

“You didn't say you trying to cut yourself in half,” Sanji says incredulously. “Fucking hell, Koby, we need to get this off of you.”

He's covered his entire rib cage in the stuff; there's a bright white line around the edge of the wrap where it's digging into his belly, and even through the layers of plastic, Sanji can see how his skin has gone a blotchy dark red. 

“I didn't think it was that bad,” Koby says. He looks stunned. “It barely hurts.”

“That's what happens when you cut off all your circulation,” Sanji says, exasperated. “All right, upstairs, I need a knife–”

It's not the trickiest thing he's had to cut before, but normally he's worried about nicking a cut of meat he's trying to unwrap, not Koby. He doesn't want to take the time to try to peel it off, though, so the knife it is, carefully slicing through the plastic until the whole thing falls off in a sheet into Koby’s lap, thin layers stuck together into something thick and nearly solid with pressure and the heat from Koby's torso. He groans and sucks in a few deep, gasping breaths once it's loose, one hand knocking the plastic off his legs and the other pressed flat to his chest. Sanji winces at the sight of Koby’s bright-red back, then turns and rifles through the closet until he unearths one of his own hoodies. It's not something he'd ever dream of wearing to work—frankly not even something he'd wear outside of work either—but it's old and soft and, most importantly, too big for Koby. 

“Put this on,” he says, holding it out behind him. “It's loose enough that it should hide, uh…”

Koby takes it without a word. Sanji hears fabric rustling and risks a peek over his shoulder after a minute to see Koby tugging the hem down with a relieved sigh. Sanji didn't realize how stiffly Koby’s been holding himself all morning until he sees the way his shoulders have relaxed now, sagging comfortably even as he rubs at his side with a rueful expression. 

“That was kind of stupid, huh?”

“Not your best idea,” Sanji admits, grimacing. “Take some time to cool off, drink some water, then come downstairs. I'll send you right back here if you still look this.”

Koby sits on his bed and immediately flops onto his back with a wheezy sigh, arms stretched out to either side. “Great. I'll be down in like… ten minutes. Once my lungs remember how inflate.”

“Make it fifteen,” Sanji says fondly, patting Koby’s knee as he steps past him and out of the room. 

He stops by Zeff’s office before he goes back to the kitchen so he can make a quick call on the old man’s private Den Den Mushi, leaving a message at Zeff’s hotel asking him to call Sanji back that night. The conversation they have a few hours later is somehow even more awkward than the one he had with Koby, but in addition to a new supplier for fowl they otherwise can't get in the middle of the East Blue, Zeff comes back to the restaurant a week later with a stack of shirts for Koby: plain, simple tank tops in black and whiye, thin and unobtrusive enough to wear under his regular clothes, but with panels of stiff fabric sewn into the chest. 

Koby spends half an hour standing in front of the mirror in his and Sanji’s room, trying on every shirt he owns over his new binders and turning sideways so he can grin wildly at his reflection and the way they lie flat. Zeff bought him four: two that fit him now and two in larger sizes, a silent promise for the future. 

He doesn't give Sanji his hoodie back. Sanji doesn't mind.

They're making rolls again. Sanji’s no idiot; there's a reason he brought Koby up here to do help him back that first day while his old captain tried to tear up the first floor. It's simple enough to be relaxing, but not so mindless that it lets you get lost in your thoughts. Koby’s wound tighter than a clock on a good day, and Sanji’s never met anyone as capable of getting stuck in their head the way this kid can. So: rolls. 

Seven months ago, getting stuck on bread prep would have been a punishment worse than death. But seven months ago, Sanji didn't have Koby to keep an eye on. He can handle getting relegated to simple, boring tasks if it means spending time with the kid who’s been feeling more and more like Sanji’s little brother. Hell, they're sharing a room now, he's teaching Koby to cook, and they spend every day together. That's infinitely more like the relationships siblings are supposed to have than anything Sanji ever had with his own. 

Koby didn't even need a distraction, for once. Once he got down the basics—and Zeff and Sanji had taught him a few extra tricks—bread making became his favorite thing to do at Baratie. He's diligent about his chores, but the moment the floors are swept, the counters wiped down, and the last pot set on the rack to dry, he's grabbing an apron and looking at Sanji with hopeful, pleading eyes as he lingers by the door to the kitchen upstairs. 

If Sanji has started timing his own nightly routine so that he finishes shutting down his station at the same time Koby finishes his chores, well. He's better at making the dough, but Koby's better at braiding it. It only makes sense for them to work together. 

Koby started out humming under his breath as they worked, a song Sanji doesn't know but a tune he recognizes from other days like this, but as they go on, kneading and setting aside various batches depending on how long each one needs to rise, he keeps cutting himself off with soft, frustrated noises. Sanji glances at him as he mutters something under his breath, shaking his head frustratedly and starting to reach his hands towards his face before he remembers they're covered in dough. 

“You all right?” Sanji asks, and Koby looks up him, blinking in surprise. Sanji’s not sure if he was so wrapped up in his task that he forgot Sanji was there, or if he's still just not used to people caring if he's okay. Sanji’s not about to ask, either way. 

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Koby says with a quick, embarrassed smile. “My hair just keeps getting in my eyes.”

Sanji flicks his eyes up to Koby’s mop of pink hair. It's grown out from the brutally short mess Sanji made of it a few months ago, and those cowlicks he fought so hard against have come back with a vengeance. It's less of an issue when he's upright and can keep it tucked behind his ears, but bent over the counter like this, it keeps falling in his face.

“Should be long enough to put in a ponytail soon,” Sanji offers. “At least the front. We could try braiding it, too.”

Koby’s mouth twists. “Uh, yeah. Maybe.” He doesn't sound enthused about the idea. “I might just ask someone to cut it again.” He shoots Sanji a sly look. “Someone else.”

Sanji snorts. Finding out Koby could be something of a little shit when he wants to had been an unexpected delight. Sanji doesn't even mind that he's Koby’s usual target; it's only ever in fun, and Koby’s funny, when he feels comfortable enough to joke. The fact that he feels safe enough to tease Sanji makes him proud more than anything else. 

“All right, all right,” he snorts, dropping his last ball of dough in a bowl to rise. He grabs a dish towel to lay over the opening, then cocks his head to the side thoughtfully as he looks at Koby, who's trying unsuccessfully to bat his bangs out of his face with the back of his wrist. Sanji quickly washes his hands, then grabs a clean towel from the stack and folds it into a long, thin strip. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “You can at least tie your hair back until someone comes through who can cut it.”

Koby glances at the towel and immediately turns a furious red. “What the– no! I'm not gonna wear a headband like that.”

Sanji frowns. “You want your hair out of your face, don't you?”

“Not like that,” Koby snaps, then swears when he pulls too hard on a strip of dough and tears it in half instead of twisting it. He ducks his head as he focuses on reattaching it smoothly, but it doesn't hide his blush. “That's stupid.”

Sanji’s the resident Koby expert at Baratie, but even he can't follow that train of logic; he just stares at Koby, baffled. “Why? How are headbands stupid?”

Koby finally looks up at Sanji just to glare at him. “It's purple. And it's got flowers all over it. I’m not gonna wear something that girly.”

Sanji frowns at the dish towel. It's a faded purple, sure, with a vaguely floral design printed on it, but he doesn't know that he'd describe it as particularly feminine. Zeff didn't buy the towels because they're pretty, after all; he bought them because they’re cheap and came in a box of a hundred. 

“I don't think it is,” he says doubtfully. “What's it even matter?”

“I don't want to dress like a girl!” Koby says, voice cracking. “I already still look like one, I don't want people to think I'm–”

He clamps his mouth shut, cheeks going even redder. Sanji nods slowly, mulling that over, then ties the makeshift headband around his own neck and slides it up to push his bangs out of the way. Koby blinks, looking startled, and Sanji shrugs. 

“My hair was in my eyes. Give me some of that dough, I'll help finish the braids.”

Koby still looks confused, but he portions off a section of dough and drops it on Sanji’s station. Sanji lets muscle memory take over the motions of cutting, rolling, and braiding, a soothing familiarty that makes it easier to ask, “Has someone been giving you trouble?”

“No,” Koby mutters, head down as he works at his own rolls. He doesn't try to push his hair out of his face this time. “At least– not on purpose.”

Sanji hums. “But someone said you look like a girl?”

“No one had to say it,” Koby says bitingly. “We have mirrors. The shirts only do so much, I know I still just… And my voice doesn't help, and I have pink hair.”

He tears another piece of dough, groans, and shoves the whole pile onto Sanji’s station before grabbing one of the bowls from earlier, ripping the cover off, and dumping it onto the counter in front of him. A few solid punches knock out most of the air and the worst of the tension in his shoulders. Sanji gives him another minute before he says anything, waiting until Koby’s settled into actually kneading the dough as opposed to just attacking it. 

“You know, there's a pirate who comes through here sometimes who's got pink hair,” he says, and Koby peeks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Full beard, too. Most hideous thing I've ever seen. Not because it's pink,” he adds quickly. “He just doesn't groom it properly.”

Koby snorts. “Nice save.”

Sanji risks leaning over to elbow Koby, who makes a face but bumps him back. “I'm just saying that it's not automatically a girl color. You're not the only boy on the ocean with pink hair.”

“It's not just that, though,” Koby says, voice strained. “It's everything. Most people aren't even trying to be rude, they just actually think I'm a girl, and it's…” He flicks his eyes up to Sanji’s makeshift headband. “You just look like a man wearing something with flowers on it. I wouldn't.”

Sanji’s chest feels like it's going to crack in half at the mix of hurt and resignation in Koby’s voice. He doesn't know how to fix this. Before now, he's always had a solution to the kid’s problems—even if that solution was sometimes just asking Zeff to fix it for him. He can loan Koby his clothes and he can try to cut his hair, but some things are out of his control. 

“I'm sorry, little tomato,” he says softly, and Koby shrugs one shoulder. “That's hard.”

“It's fine,” Koby says, but he sounds subdued. “Better than it used to be, you know? And everyone here helps a lot. It's just sometimes I wish…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “I don't know.”

“Yeah.”

There are some things about Koby that Sanji might not ever understand, but wanting something that seems impossibly far away is a feeling he gets. He used to be that kid, desperately scrambling for a dream that felt forever out of reach. He still is, sometimes; the only difference is that while he's put some of his own dreams on hold these days, he can work on someone else's. 

Koby breaks him out of his thoughts when he drops the dough back in its bowl for the second rise with a soft thump. Like Sanji, he hesitates for a moment as he covers it, then squares his shoulders, purses his lips, and snatches up a clean towel to tie his hair back with. 

Sanji doesn't say anything, but Koby answers anyways, shrugging a little as he says, “I still need it out of my eyes. Besides, it's just us in here, and you know who I am.”

“‘Course I do,” Sanji says gently. “You're a kid who doesn't know what a good haircut looks like.”

Koby bursts out laughing, and some of the tension fades from around his eyes as he smacks Sanji’s arm before stealing some of the unbraided dough back. “It was a bad haircut, Sanji!”

Sanji continues teasing Koby and declaring his unappreciated secret talent as a master hairstylist, happy to at least distract the kid while promising himself he'll start working on an actual plan tomorrow.

“Zeff!”

“Sanji, let go, I swear to fucking–”

“Zeff Zeff Zeff Zeff Zeff!”

“You're such a dick, I hate you so much–”

“Zefffff!”

Zeff slams the cleaver down into the neck of the fish he's fileting, leaving the blade stuck in the cutting board when he turns around to glare at the two of them storming into the kitchen. Sanji is walking behind Koby, gripping his shoulders as he shoves him towards Zeff. Koby's feet scrabble against the floor as he tries to squirm away, but Sanji’s relentless as he marches him forward. 

“What?” Zeff snaps. 

“Look what Koby did!” Sanji says. He's grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “Look at his face!”

“I didn't do anything,” Koby protests. “Sanji’s being an idiot. Ignore him.”

Zeff frowns as he looks Koby over. Sanji waits as patiently as he can for the old man to see it, but Zeff just looks nonplussed. “What am I looking at?”

“Nothing,” Koby says, then squawks when Sanji reaches around to poke the side of his face. “Cut it out, you fucking cretin!”

“Right there!” Sanji says, delighted. “Look what's on his chin!”

Zeff squints. It's hard to make out with how red Koby’s face is, but Sanji can tell when Zeff finally notices the single pink hair. His eyebrows shoot up, and Sanji laughs. 

“Well, I'll be damned,” Zeff says. “Look at that. You coming for my throne, little tomato?”

“Your what?” Koby asks, and Zeff pointedly strokes his hand down his mustache. Sanji laughs again, then lets out a dramatic fake sob and drapes himself over Koby’s back. 

“A beard,” he cries, while Koby flails his arms out with a yelp in an attempt to keep them both upright as Sanji sags against him. “Our boy has a beard, old man, he's all grown up–”

“It is one hair,” Koby says, but he finally gives up on fighting back his own laughter as he ducks his head and reaches back to slap ineffectually at Sanji. “It's not a big deal, stop being stupid.”

“Our little tomato,” Sanji wails, completely ignoring him except to tighten his grip when Koby tries to squirm away, arms wrapped around his shoulders. “All grown up, growing his own beard–”

“Shut up!” Koby laughs, and Sanji grunts when Koby finally manages to drive an elbow into his stomach and wriggle away while Sanji’s winded. He's still grinning though, equal parts embarrassed and pleased as his shoulders hunch shyly. “Can you stop screaming and just show me how to shave?”

“Yes,” Sanji gasps. “Holy shit, yes. Zeff, I'm gonna–”

“Put your apron on and get on the line,” Zeff interrupts. “We've still got a restaurant to run. Both of you go finish getting ready and then get to work; save the spa day for later.” 

Sanji groans, but Zeff is right. Koby has his chores and front of house preparations, and Sanji needs to start getting ingredients ready for the brunch crowd. Besides, Sanji wants to make sure they have plenty of time to give the event all the fanfare it deserves when they get to it. 

He still makes a show of grumbling and swearing at Zeff over his shoulder as he storms out of the kitchen. It's not loud enough for him to miss Zeff’s soft, earnest, “It looks good, little tomato,” or Koby's equally sincere thanks. 

Finding a doctor for Koby had been… difficult, to say the least. Hell, they have a hard enough time getting fresh meat and vegetables to Baratie. Zeff has all the staff trained in basic first aid, but after that conversation in the kitchen last year, it became clear that Koby needed more than what they had in the medicine cabinet. Zeff reached out to contacts both from his days as a pirate and his career as a chef, and Sanji began hounding every ship’s doctor who passed through the restaurant for information and resources. 

For the most part, living on a ship hasn't ever been an issue for them; Baratie travels a set path through the Sambas region, they have regularly scheduled deliveries of food, clothes, and supplies, and they're never more than a few days away from land and rarely more than a few weeks from a major city. The months they spent searching for a doctor for Koby once they'd realized how hard the kid was struggling, though, had Sanji grinding his teeth so hard he was afraid he was going to crack one. First it was finding a doctor at all, then managing to get an appointment scheduled when it meant both Koby and Zeff leaving the restaurant for the weeks it would take to travel to Loguetown and back, then figuring out how to safely transport regular shipments of medication that only had a month-long shelf life. 

They'd figured it out. Koby tried a few times to tell them they didn't need to go to all that effort just for him, and Zeff had pointed out that if he could figure out how to get fresh Wagyu beef to the middle of the ocean, he could figure out how to get a few vials of testosterone there, too. 

Six months later, Sanji had helped give Koby his first shot. His voice had started dropping barely two months later, and a few months after that and two days after they first noticed the hair, he and Sanji are in the small bathroom down the hall from their room, both in plain undershirts as Sanji walks him through how to shave. Koby doesn't enough hair yet for it to really be necessary, but Sanji wasn't about to say no when Koby asked. 

He’d demanded Zeff teach him how to shave as soon as he started noticing hair on his upper lip as a teenager, too, even though it was so fine it was barely distinguishable from peach fuzz. Zeff had indulged him then, just like Sanji’s taking the time to do for Koby now. 

“So it depends on how close you want it,” he says, pulling the razor down his cheek. Koby watches him in the mirror, then carefully copies the movement, brow furrowed in concentration. “Always start with the grain first, and then if you want it extra smooth, go back over it the opposite direction.”

“Why do you have to do it twice?” Koby asks curiously. “Why not just shave it backwards he first time?”

“Because you'll get razor burn, and I'll make fun of you for looking like an actual tomato,” Sanji says. He laughs when Koby sticks his tongue out at him, then laughs even harder at the disgusted face Koby makes when that only serves to get shaving cream in his mouth. 

He walks Koby through the whole process, trying to keep a straight face. It's hard not to grin; Koby's excitement is infectious. He's nearly bouncing in place, beaming at his reflection when he's not watching himself like a hawk to make sure he's doing it properly. Sanji drains and cleans the sink when they're done, leaving Koby to tilt his head back and forth to examine his reflection from every angle, running his fingers over his smooth cheeks. 

“Do you think it'll start to come in thicker eventually?” he asks. “It's been months; I was hoping I'd have more by now. Maybe it's ‘cause it's just the shots, instead of actual testosterone?” 

“That's not the medicine, that's just genetics,” Sanji says absently as he wipes up the stray hairs from the sink so Zeff won't kill then later. “I can't really grow one either; it comes in too patchy for anything but a goatee.”

He glances up when Koby doesn't answer to see that he's frozen in place, one hand still on his cheek, but his eyes look suddenly wet. Sanji’s startled for a moment, then laughs awkwardly as he realizes too late what he just said. 

“Uh, I meant–”

“So it–” Koby’s voice cracks, but he smiles, uncertain but hopeful. “It just runs in the family, huh?”

Sanji’s grin threatens to split his face. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“I understand your concern, sir, but you have to understand why I'm not willing to perform a major surgery like this on a boat.”

“And you have to understand why I'm not willing to send my kids to the middle of fucking nowhere for two months without me!”

“My kids,” Sanji whispers, tracing a finger down his cheek with an exaggeratedly sappy expression, and Koby shushes him before bending back over the den den mushi, listening intently. 

“It wouldn't be for two months. Your son would be able to travel safely after only a few–”

“Hold on. No, shut up.” Zeff’s voice through the receiver suddenly becomes much louder, and Sanji and Koby wince in unison as they hear him both through the den den and from down the hall, bellowing, “Eggplant! Tomato! Get off the fucking line!”

“Sorry, old man,” Sanji says, not sorry in the least, and ends the call. Koby doesn't apologize, just scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. 

As soon as Sanji sets the receiver down, he snaps, “I should be on that call.”

Sanji shrugs. “He's just being protective. You know how he gets; he just wants to make sure he has all the details worked out first.”

Koby groans and flops onto his back on the carpet. “It's my tits he's talking about! It's stupid for me not to be part of that conversation!”

Sanji snorts and scoops the den den mushi up to set back in its usual place on his nightstand, leaving Koby sprawled on the floor while he drops onto his bed, legs folded underneath himself. “Not to argue, but you were part of that conversation. You got the actual hard part of planning out of the way; let the old man handle logistics.”

“I should have just let Carne do it,” Koby mutters. “I'd be all healed up by now.”

“You'd be dead and buried by now,” Sanji corrects, wincing at the memory of Carne insisting that performing surgery on Koby couldn't be that much harder than deboning a chicken. “He would have split you in two.”

“I'm an adult,” Koby says, pushing himself up on one elbow to frown at Sanji. “The doctor said you don't even need to come with me; they've got nurses for a reason. I could just go and come back in a few weeks and then the whole thing would be done.”

“Koby, come on,” Sanji says, amused. “We're not gonna let you go off and get surgery all by yourself. Of course I'm going with you.”

“Then why isn't that enough?” Koby whines. “The doctor already said he won't do it here, and Zeff can't leave the restaurant for that long. You and I can go, and then as soon as I'm healed up, we can come back and he can play mother hen all he likes.”

Sanji shrugs and braces his elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his hand as he looks down at Koby. “You get why he's nervous about you being in the hospital, right?”

Koby groans again and drops back down. “Yeah,” he says tiredly. “I get it.” 

Zeff has more than enough reason to be uncomfortable around hospitals in general, all things considered, not to mention that he never likes when Sanji or Koby are out of arm’s reach. And while Sanji doesn't know how similar top surgery really is to amputation, he has to imagine it's enough to make the old man even more paranoid. 

It's quiet enough that he can hear Koby swallow. “But that's not fair,” he says quietly. “I know he's scared. But I'm scared too, and I’ve already been waiting.”

Sanji winces. It's true; Koby first brought up the idea months ago, and knowing how his head works, Sanji has to imagine he was thinking about it long before he mentioned it to anyone else. Zeff had seemed excited at first, encouraging Koby to talk to the doctor who prescribed his testosterone and promising to give him whatever time off he needed for the procedure, but it sounds like Sanji isn't the only one who's noticed how the old man’s enthusiasm died down as the reality of what Koby was asking for settled in. He hasn't done anything to get in the way of Koby’s planning, and had in fact been helping with figuring out the schedule and what Koby would need while he recovered. 

Until they found out how few doctors in the East Blue had the training and experience required for this particular surgery, and how none of those few worked anywhere near the Baratie’s route. It would be weeks of travel even to get to the nearest surgeon and back, not to mention the time it would take for Koby to even be able to travel afterwards. 

“He's spent so long just yelling at different doctors for something they're never gonna do, I could have already got it done and been back by now,” Koby says. “It's not like I need it right away, but…”

“But you didn't need to wait this long, either,” Sanji says quietly, petting the den den mushi’s shell, and Koby sighs. 

“I know he's not trying to make it harder on purpose. It's not like I don't want him to care.”

Sanji hums. “Do you want me to talk to him?” 

Koby groans and covers his face. “No.”

“Do you not want me to, or do you not want to ask me to?”

Kobys only answer is to flip him off. Sanji snorts but lets the subject drop, and the next morning he drags himself out of bed early and goes downstairs before the sun is up. Unsurprisingly, Zeff is already awake and cooking. He glances up when Sanji steps into the kitchen, and his face sets in a scowl when he sees who it is. 

“I didn't get you a line so you could listen in on my private conversations, you little–”

“Zeff,” Sanji says, and the old man’s mouth clicks shut. Sanji takes a deep breath, braces himself, and says, “You're hurting Koby. You need to figure something out, or get used to the idea and let him go. You can't keep putting it off.”

He tries to keep his voice even and his expression calm, anything to hide how nauseatingly anxious he is. He and Zeff are forever at odds, hurling insults and threats at each other at top volume, but it's never serious. Sanji can count on one hand the number of times he's had to bring up an actual problem with Zeff. It makes him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run or roll over and show his belly, whatever apology he needs to make to erase that quick flash of surprised hurt of Zeff’s face. 

He keeps his feet planted. It's for Koby. 

Zeff clears his throat and goes back to the cutting board, but the knife moves noticeably slower. “Dunno what you're talking about.”

“Zeff,” Sanji says again, and the old man actually winces. 

“Fucking hell, eggplant,” he mutters, hands going still once again. “I'm not…”

“Do you want to go with him instead?” Sanji asks, even thought the idea of staying behind while Koby leaves for something that big makes his heart riot. “I can run Baratie while you're gone.”

“Not for two months, you can't,” Zeff says, shaking his head. “Fuck. He's upset?”

“He doesn't want to say anything,” Sanji admits. “But yeah.”

Zeff sets the knife down. Taps his fingers in a slow, uneven pattern against the cutting board. Clears his throat. And then finally says, defeated, “You know I want him to get whatever he wants. And if what he wants is the surgery, then that's what he should get.” He laughs roughly and lifts his head, offering Sanji a rueful smile. “But two months? Kid gets into trouble every time I look away for two minutes.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to him,” Sanji promises. “I'll take care of him.”

“Yeah,” Zeff mutters, then lets out an explosive sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you always do that. Fuck. Fuck.”

“I'll call every day,” Sanji adds. “Twice a day, if you want. You'll know everything that happens as soon as I do.”

Zeff nods. “You'd better.” He drops his hand with a muttered curse. “Look at me, fretting like an old hen. I used to be a fucking pirate.”

Sanji grins as some of the tension eases from his shoulders. “That a yes?”

“Yes, it's a yes,” Zeff says irritably. “Tell the little tomato he can cut off whatever parts he wants. He's a grown man, it's not my job to make his doctors appointments. Now get the fuck out of my kitchen, you little shit.”

“You're a heartless fucking bastard, old man,” Sanji says cheerfully. “Twenty berry says Koby’s gonna cry when I tell him.”

“You make him cry, I'll skin you alive,” Zeff snaps, snatching up the knife and pointing towards the door with it. “Out.”

Sanji beats a hasty retreat, grinning ear to ear. Koby does cry when Sanji tells him, then races downstairs to thank Zeff. Two weeks later, he and Sanji are climbing onto a skiff with a handful of customers, having booked passage on their ship to the Red Line. It's two weeks of sailing, then another few days of travel further inland to the hospital. 

Sanji calls Zeff twice a day, even when the calls amount to nothing more than a greeting, a quick insult, and complaints about the food on their journey. Koby’s always happy to talk to take the den den from him, chattering on to Zeff about the view and the people they've encountered on the way, what their hotel room is like, how his first in-person meeting with the surgeon went. 

“Zeeeeeefff,” he slurs into the den den mushi Sanji holds up for him two days after they arrive, grinning lazily and smacking his lips. “Guess what.”

Sanji hears a huff of laughter on the other end. “What's that, little tomato?”

“I'm flat,” Koby mumbles. “Like paper. Hurray.”

Sanji snorts out a laugh. “You're drugged, is what you are. He's gonna fall asleep soon, old man,” he adds when Koby’s eyes drift shut and he struggles to open them again. “We should probably go. Doctor said I can take him back to the hotel in a few hours; we both need a nap before then.”

“Don't need a nap,” Koby mutters, eyes closing again. “Let's have a party. My tits are not invited.”

“I promise your tits will not be at any party we throw,” Sanji says. His stomach hurts from holding in his laughter. Zeff isn’t having the same problem; Sanji can hear him wheezing on the other end. “You wanna say bye before I hang up?”

“Don't wanna,” Koby whines. “Let's keep talking.”

“We'll call him again when we get back to the hotel,” Sanji promises. “Say goodnight for now.”

Koby sighs dramatically, but he nods, yawns, and mumbles, “Night, dad.”

Sanji’s eyebrows shoot up. Zeff stops laughing.

“Night, little tomato,” he says, voice choked. “I'll talk to you soon.”

Koby’s only answer is a soft snore. Sanji lowers the volume on the den den mushi, then holds the receiver up to his ear and whispers, “Are you crying right now? You're crying, aren't you?”

“You'll cry when I shove my boot up your ass,” Zeff snaps, but there's no heat in it. “Let me know when you get ready to go back to the room. I'll call the hotel and have dinner waiting for you.”

Sanji can't keep up the teasing act; he's too tired from weeks of travel and the stress of the last few hours sitting in a quiet waiting room and driving himself insane with worry. “Thanks,” he yawns. “I’m gonna try to get some sleep, too. I'll let you know when we're getting ready to leave.”

“Do that. Sleep well, little eggplant.”  

“Talk soon, old man.”

Sanji ends the call and settles back in the chair a nurse brought in for him, trying to make himself as comfortable as he can. It's a lost cause—he can already tell he's going to wake up with one hell of a crick in his neck—but he's exhausted enough that it doesn't matter. 

It helps that when he reaches over to tangle his fingers with Koby’s, Koby squeezes his hand automatically, even in his sleep. He's safe, happy, and in one slightly differently-shaped piece than he was that morning, which is all Sanji needs to know. He squeezes Koby’s hand in return, tilts his head back, and lets himself drift off.