Chapter Text
“I can’t, I have a severe case of Don't-Want-To-Get-My-Face-Caved-In-Tinnitus.”
The classroom’s buzzing with activity, that loaded moment in between classes when a teacher’s slightly late and your best friend turns around in his chair to let you know how exasperated he is with your choices. Outside, the sun shines a timid warmth.
“He’s a high schooler, Usopp. I don’t think he can cave anyone’s face in,” Sanji says, appearing completely nonchalant, the pen spinning lazily between his fingers, his gaze sliding away from Usopp every time a girl walks by. “Besides–”
He’s interrupted, Usopp’s voice almost cartoonish with worry. “That’s a psychopath’s note, Sanji!”
“Besides,” the blond glares, pen now pointed at Usopp’s face, right between his eyes, “if you paid attention to anything I said, you’d know that you’re not getting anywhere near the fight.”
“Oh yeah? That what he promised?! Did the note come with a written clause?!” Usopp grips the back of his own chair, voice going all high and strained the way it always does when he senses danger. Kind of like a biologically wired peril radar, but with the sensitivity turned all the way over to the red zone.
Sanji rolls his eyes, already sensing the incoming headache. It’s been such a lovely day, too. Sure, he found a menacing note on his desk first thing in the morning, but Sanji doesn’t see it as a threat—rather, it’s an opportunity. A chance to kick some asshole’s face into the next week.
“Just listen,” he tried, grabbing Usopp’s metaphorical hand and guiding him through the best-case scenario: “You’re not fighting anyone—I am. We’ll walk up, you’ll witness my inevitable victory, and then we’ll steal some of his change and buy sodas.”
“Why do I even have to be there?!”
Sanji blinks. Opens his mouth, then closes it with a click. He mentally counts to five, then tries again, temper now held together by a thin thread. "You volunteered earlier”.
“No! Lies,” Sanji scoffs, which makes Usopp insist harder. “Lies! That is not what I meant, and you know it!”
The thread snaps. “Nothing’s going to happen! If I wanted to see you get all beat up, don’t you think I’d have done that myself at this point?!”
Usopp blinks back.
Surprisingly, it seems to help. Usopp’s shoulders come down from his ears, and he shrugs, chair squeaking under his now relaxed weight. “You know what, that’s a fair point.”
“So you’re coming?”
“Absolutely I am not. Ask Nami.”
Tac.
That’s the sound of Sanji’s pen hitting the table. It’s also the sound signaling Usopp fucked up real bad.
“How could I ever ask a lady to bear witness to that kind of violence?!” Their roles reverse in the blink of an eye, Sanji the one close to shrieking now, eyes wide as saucers. “Are you out of your mind?! You’re the one insisting I shouldn’t go alone, so you take responsibility.”
Usopp’s about to argue when an idea lights up his face.
“Okay, what about this: I’ll teach you some moves, huh?” he smirks, making his hands into fists and raising them in a way he seems to think it’s threatening. “Once, I got into a brawl with like, five dudes, and all it took to defeat them was these bad boys and a well thrown Roly Poly–”
But Sanji’s not in the mood to entertain this any longer, and feels no remorse for interrupting. It’s often how it goes, their conversations unfolding like a runaway train on a steep incline.
“It won’t even last five minutes–”
“–it flew right into his nostril–”
“–I’ll have that guy limping away with his tail between his legs–”
Speeding up, on and on until-
“How can you be so sure he’s going to show up alone?!”
–it grinds to a stop.
Sanji swallows back a quip about how he knows for sure he can handle at least three guys at once. Usopp never likes it when he jokes about that.
Instead, he’s honest. “I don’t care if he shows up alone or with the fucking Backstreet Boys as entourage. And if he does, that means he’s a coward who deserves to taste the sole of my shoe.” A grin splits his face, and Sanji’s gaze goes distant. “He’s going to regret even challenging me.”
“Who challenged you?”
Their necks turn to look up at the newly arrived voice like a pair of meerkats. It’s Gin, who approached their desks some time when they were not paying attention. Usopp is immediately relieved, and urges him to pull up a chair and join them with a frantic hand motion.
“Gin, great. Please listen to this nonsense–”
“–Some shitty, stupid guy sent me a threat for no reason.” Sanji spits the words out, crossing his arms and scanning the classroom like he’ll know exactly who did it if he just squints his eyes hard enough.
To Usopp’s relief, Gin seems appropriately shocked. “What?”
“Some weirdo left him a note on his desk, and instead of ignoring it like any sane person would do, Sanji wants to go meet him.”
Gin’s eyes widen, but there's a small, appreciative curve to his lips. “Wow. That’s ballsy, man.”
Sanji’s expression mirrors Gin’s. The sound of their high five rings loud through the classroom.
“Okay, I’m checking out of this conversation. I have homework to not do, so,” Usopp declared, turning resolutely towards his desk. Gin doesn't seem to mind, coming closer, one elbow up on Sanji’s desk and a curious drawl in his voice.
“So, why did he challenge you?”
“Great question, Gin!” Usopp’s reaction is immediate, as he turns back around before Sanji has a chance to respond. He counted two whole seconds of Usopp keeping his nose to himself.
“Go back to your not homework, long-nose, I’m done with you.”
Sanji scrunches his face at him, and Usopp shows him his tongue, the usual song and dance. Turning to Gin, Sanji shrugs, pen now loosely hanging from the corner of his lips. “And I don’t know actually, I don’t know the guy.”
Gin blinks. “Wait. Like… at all?”
“There was no name on the note.”
“Yeah, Gin, duh,” scoffing, Usopp sends Sanji a pointed glare. “There was no name on the note explicitly threatening him. Asking to meet at a secluded place, devoid of the watchful, worried gazes of responsible adults. Keep it up.”
“Alright, enough of the attitude,” Sanji snaps back, but it's devoid of any real venom. More of a crisis control than a retort. Usopp's getting into that phase where his panic translates into sarcasm, so Sanji needs him to stop before it escalates into some shit Usopp can’t back up.
But to his credit, it’s been a while since his best friend put this much effort into trying to steer him off of doing something. Sanji knows him, every tell; he knows it’s nothing but worry. However, Usopp also knows him, and shouldn’t expect Sanji to back down.
“I can’t help it, okay?! I’m freaking out!” Said and done. “Dude, please don’t go, or at least don’t go alone!”
“I told you already. If you’re so worried, come with me yourself. Just don’t get in my way.”
“How about none of us go?! Huh?!” he now looks seconds away from getting up on his chair and ripping all his clothes off, a crazed tilt to his voice where it breaks right at the end, “How about that?”
“I can’t not go! It’s the principle!”
“Well, I’m living by a principle too! The Not Willing To Walk To My Death principle!”
It’s Gin’s voice that, once again, shakes them from their back and forth.
“I don’t know, man, maybe Usopp is right?” he sounds so apologetic that Sanji almost feels like a child reprimanded by the Good Cop type of parent. “We know you can hold your own in a fight, but this sounds sketchy. What did the note say?”
“Yeah, Sanji! What did the note say?”
“Usopp, really, tone it the fuck down–”
“No, I’m actually asking. The ironic tone just kind of lingered.”
Sanji sighs, reaching into the pocket of his pants. He digs around for the paper, then places it unfolded on the desk with a voilà sort of gesture. Both Usopp and Gin lean in to read it. The handwriting is so ugly, they both recoil with a frown before leaning back in again.
It reads:
SANJI. MEET ME BEHIND THE SCHOOL.
FRIDAY.
16:00.
COME ALONE.
For a moment, neither of them says anything. Usopp inhales.
“Uh… that’s it?”
“Yup.”
The boys exchange glances.
“Just that?” Gin asks, trepidation in his voice that Sanji finds uneasy.
Deadpan, Usopp picks up the note. He turns it around, then upside down, then holds it against the light coming from the window. “But you said it was a threat.”
“It is.”
“But it isn’t.”
“What else would it be?” disgruntled, Sanji snatches the note back. “Look, it says ‘come alone’.”
Gin and Usopp exchange yet another glance. Sanji crosses his arms, trying and failing not to feel defensive over this sudden camaraderie they seem to be sharing. For a moment they move together, like a single organism, trying to navigate how to best showcase the slight upward tilt of an eyebrow. It’s Usopp who breaks the silence, his hand carefully landing on Sanji’s shoulder.
“Dude, it could literally be anything.”
Sanji scoffs. Are these two for real? “Of course not. Look at how ominously it’s written.”
Usopp mouths the big word to himself, both he and Gin looking over the note again.
“I guess the handwriting is pretty bad,” Gin appeases, scratching his jaw.
“Hey, some of us can’t help it, okay?” Usopp chimes in, checking if his own notebook is open on his desk with a quick but unsubtle movement. “That doesn’t mean it’s a threat.”
Sanji’s jaw tightens. That’s rich coming from someone who could read “threat” in a love poem if left alone to analyze it for long enough.
“Well, what is it then? Clearly a dude wrote it, the girls here all have impeccable handwriting.”
“Could be a confession,” Gin offers, then seems to consider the possibility for a second before shaking his head, rushing to add: “You know what, actually I agree with Usopp. You shouldn’t go.”
That gets him a quick dart of the eyes from Usopp. Sanji is too busy rolling his own to notice.
“You two know nothing about the intricacies of high school love notes. It’s ritualistic, almost! It’s not scribbled with an HB pencil on a ripped notebook page. This,” he picks up the offending paper, shaking it in front of their faces, “is a threat. And I won’t stand for it!”
Out there, there's a little punk who made the mistake of his life thinking he could mess with Sanji. Just the thought of it sits in his chest like a coal too hot to hold.
The bell rings, lucky for Usopp, who’s been on the verge of a stroke since the conversation started. Gin goes back to his desk, and Usopp turns around to his own with finality, letting Sanji be for now—he can always knock some sense into him later.
*
When Sanji arrives—16:00 on the dot—someone’s already there, waiting for him. From behind, the school is nothing but an enormous block of pale yellow concrete, a grass patch, and a few pieces of litter here and there. Sanji recognizes some of the cigarette butts to be his own.
He also recognizes the guy.
He’s a second year too, and even though they don’t share the same class, Sanji’s seen him around plenty of times. The guy is impossible to miss; he’s as tall as Sanji, which is saying a lot, and has the stupidest hair he's ever seen. Bright green, cut short, spiky. Like grass.
Sanji approaches him with sure steps. Alright, so he might be a little taller than Sanji, now that he’s got a closer look. Definitely broader too. Gritting his teeth, Sanji tries not to feel too emasculated by that. He knows he could put on muscle if he only had the chance to get enough daily calories, which will happen as soon as he moves out for college. Sanji is 100% sure that he thinks that the only thing separating him from a chiseled body is time.
At least the ogre came alone.
To be honest, he’d expected some sort of cathartic realization when he saw the guy in person, like it would immediately come to mind what Sanji did to piss him off. A 'so it was you!' sort of moment, but there’s nothing. Sure, Sanji is likely to treat most guys poorly on any given day, but he can’t come up with a reason for this guy to want a fight, no matter how hard he tries.
Quite the opposite, actually. He remembers, sort of, the first time they crossed paths. Sanji was passing by the gym on his way to soccer practice back in first year—not a sport he particularly loves, but any opportunity to delay going home after school is one he’ll take. It was a Thursday or a Wednesday, and the members of the Kendo club were looking very drab standing in front of the gym’s equipment shed. They looked so defeated Sanji couldn’t help but stop and ask what was wrong, to which one of them revealed they couldn’t practice that day. There had been a mix up with the keys, and their equipment's locked inside.
Green haired guy was there, staring daggers at the lock.
“I’m just gonna break in,” he’d said.
To which all the other club members started fussing over him, saying he shouldn’t, he’d get in trouble, they can’t afford to lose him for regionals, he’s the best one they’ve got and blah blah blah. Sanji looked around, made sure there were no faculty members in sight, saw the already wonky, poorly installed lock and decided.
“Alright, back off, guys.”
He'd shifted his weight, and with a charged, directed movement, kicked the latch off its hinges.
Sure, he could’ve walked off with a “that’s too bad” and a good luck wish. The worst that would happen is they’d have to go home and wait for the issue to be resolved. It wouldn’t take long, maybe a day or two without practice. But you never know what others go home to, and Green Haired Guy in specific looked a little too uncomfortable with the whole situation.
“You can just say you found it like this. Thing was falling apart anyway.”
Some guys seemed hesitant, but the overall energy was one of thank you’s and ooh’s and aah’s. Sanji took it in stride and carried on with his day.
That was a good thing, right? Seemed like it at the time. He distinctly remembers Green Haired Guy nodding goodbye in his direction, shoulders less tense.
So what the fuck is this? And the way he’s staring too, like a coiled spring ready to snap at the smallest of movements.
Sanji stares back, ‘cause he’s not a coward. It was unexpected, however, when all Green Haired Guy did was stay a respectable distance, and say:
“You’re here.”
Sanji scowls. “Well, duh. I’m assuming the note was from you.”
“Yes.”
There’s a pregnant pause where Sanji feels the urge to light up a cigarette. But he won’t let this strange atmosphere get under his skin. “Alright, so–”
“I’m Zoro Roronoa. From class B, second year.”
Sanji blinks. First, being interrupted is a huge pet peeve of his. Second, that's what it was for? What, are they doing introductions first?
“Right. So, are we doing this or not?”
Green Haired Guy's composure seems to falter in the face of Sanji's bluntness. Good, he thinks, but doesn’t let it show. He might be bigger, but I’m already getting into his head.
“Yes, I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”
God, did he plan out a monologue or something?
“I suppose.”
Green Hair—or rather, Roronoa’s eyes widen. It's so weird to watch, like his face doesn't know how to look flustered. It’s a misplaced expression, considering what they’re about to do, but Sanji is too impatient to read into it. Sanji gets ready, tightening his stance while Roronoa does the same, straightening his posture, then… nodding once, like a small bow. Huh?
“Please,” Roronoa says, gaze a honed blade, “go out with me.”
Silence. The only sounds being the wimpy whistle of the wind and Sanji's jaw hitting the ground.
Huh?
*
Usopp sighed.
“Told you so.”
It's clearly a suicidal move in nature, so really Sanji is doing him a favor by aiming a shoe right at his head.
*
The thing is, love letters are by far Sanji's favorite manifestation of love. Naturally, he’s written a lot of them himself. He’s kind of an expert on the subject, although he’d never say that out loud in danger of sounding like Usopp. Sanji is a real, proper expert, knows all the intricacies and heart swooping details it takes to write a love letter. Every choice you make is one that carries weight when it comes to putting your utmost sincere feelings into the hands of the one you love.
First, the paper itself. There’s a charm to all kinds, of course—any choice a girl makes can only be the right one, but he digresses. A white paper is classic, a great option for beginners, eliciting a freedom only a blank canvas could. There’s enough space to fill with cute doodles, or maybe even a collage. Or someone might opt for those expensive, curated sets of envelopes, created with the purpose of a love letter in mind, the sort of thing so pretty you almost can’t bring yourself to use it. Usually reserved for special occasions only, but what could be more special than love?
Even the spontaneity of a ripped notebook page can be so... genuine. Sanji can see it, light as day in his mind’s eye: a girl, so conflicted by her own feelings, who can’t stop herself and has to confess right away, before her courage runs out. Just as lovely and heartfelt as a carefully planned out–
“—confession. Didn’t you say that once? So what’s the issue with this one?”
School days are usually repetitive, but today has an especially strong feeling of déjà vu. Sanji is in the same classroom, in the same seat, with Gin and Usopp still at his table, still going on about that stupid note. Except now it’s Monday, the next week, and Sanji feels like shit warmed over.
He rolls his eyes, tired of having to repeat over and over again:
“The issue, Usopp, is that a pretty girl didn’t write it,” he gritted the words out, already at the stage of considering arson and regretting the ice pack he got Usopp for the shoe dent on his forehead. “There’s no heart put into it. It’s just–crass!”
“Hmm, I sense a double standard.”
“No, it’s just plain old standard. That’s how boys are.” Usopp seems ready to counter the argument, but Sanji is so not in the mood to listen. He’ll reserve himself the right to assume the worst of Roronoa, thank you very much—so far there's been nothing to prove otherwise.
“The point is, he ruined it. Missed every single mark possible, he– he wrote it with a pencil! It looks like–”
“Like a threat,” Gin adds. Sanji snaps his fingers at him in a handgun motion.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know, man. Seems more childlike than threatening to me,” Usopp mutters under his breath, eyebrows furrowed in thought.
“I don’t remember asking.”
“Geez, alright! Someone’s in a mood.”
It was admittedly a very gratuitous jab, and in front of Gin, nonetheless. But Sanji doesn't have it in him right now to feel sorry.
“Give me a break. I’ve been through a lot.”
“So we’ve heard.” And because Usopp’s actually a good friend, he pats Sanji on the shoulder, seemingly unbothered by his previous outburst.
Despite joking around all the time about how he's able to put up with Usopp’s shit, the reality is that it goes both ways. Sanji is pretty shitty to put up with just as often, to be honest.
Slowly, he slumps onto his chair, much like an overcooked noodle, rubbing his face furiously in an attempt to shake off this awful mood. Sanji didn't sleep a wink last night. But the weather is nice, the ever lovely Pudding will bake carrot cake at cooking club this afternoon, and he’ll live.
Sanji is ready to move on and forget The Incident ever happened, but Gin is curious.
“What happened after though? What did you tell him?”
*
“Please go out with me.”
Sanji was stunned. Silent. Silenced.
Roronoa stares, the most intense eyes Sanji's ever seen. That same frown on Roronoa's face is reading more like constipated than defiant by the second.
“I like you, and you’re single,” is his reasoning, apparently.
The sheer offensiveness of that statement works like a defibrillator to Sanji’s stopped dead heart, a completely distinct shock than the one that froze him in the first place. It does the job of bringing him back to life, claws out and teeth bared, but at what cost?
He’s not wrong. But still! How dare he assume?!
“How can you be so sure? Maybe I’m not!”
Roronoa keeps frowning, and at this point Sanji is thinking that’s just how his face naturally falls.
“But you are.”
Fuck this guy.
“How could you even know? You’ve been watching me, is that it?!”
“Yes.”
Sanji flinches, like touching something scalding hot, and goes red all over. Fuck. This. Guy.
“I–it’s–that’s–”
Goddamnit.
THE ART OF LOVE LETTERS I
The thing is, Sanji never received a love letter.
Which is okay. Completely fine, after all, Sanji loves writing them just as much as he would love to receive one, he’s sure.
After all, there’s nothing like watching a girl’s sweet expression of surprise when they’re reading one, realizing that they’ve gained someone’s favor, and the way it makes them smile. Even if said smile's shared among her friends, the letter passing from one hand to another, with only the occasional muffled laugh thrown your way ‘cause you're the scrawny boy from two grades below her, who’s too stupid for his own good if he ever thought he had a chance.
Still, it’s his love. His to pour out, as constant as the turning of the tides ever since he was a little boy. What good would his love be if he kept it all to himself? A girl should always know she’s appreciated, and Sanji would never let something so small as being made fun of stop him from telling her she’s beautiful, inside and out.
And maybe a tiny, dumb and stupid and so, so tiny part of him thinks it was kinda brave of Roronoa to share his, too.
*
“Is this a prank?”
“Hah?”
Sanji wants to walk away, trust him, but he’s stuck. He'll burn a hole in the grass patch before being able to move his legs, with how much he’s fuming right now.
“Did Niji put you up to this?”
To Roronoa’s credit, his confusion seems genuine.
“Who?” He makes a face like he just chewed on a lemon. Then, with a demanding tone, added, “Didn’t know you were so insecure.”
Sanji scoffs so hard he almost chokes on it. “Didn’t you just say you’ve been watching me?”
Green Hair blinks once, twice, deadpan expression, until a grin slices through his face. Sanji still believes this guy has every intention of beating the fuck out of him at some point today, because holy shit, who looks like that when smiling?
Sanji sighs, rubbing one hand over his face. This can't be happening. “Listen, Roronoa–”
“Zoro.”
“Sure, mosshead, whatever–”
“Mosshead?!”
“I don’t like men like that,” or in general, his mind adds.
Zoro seems unphased.
“I know.”
Sanji grabs his hair with both hands now, exhaling like a bull. By far the most infuriating interaction he ever had with anyone, ever.
“Then why even tell me?” he shrieks, even though it feels wrong the moment it leaves his lips. Sanji would’ve done the same, no matter how hopeless the romance seemed—but Roronoa doesn't need to know that.
However, that actually seems to get Mosshead to think before opening his mouth, something Sanji was starting to think him incapable of.
“I don’t do things halfway,” seems to be his conclusive answer, clipped but sure as he crossed his arms. They're big, bulging over his chest, and how is this guy seventeen? A beat passed, Sanji almost able to see the gears turning in Roronoa’s head. He looks pained to add: “and you seem to like that sort of stuff.”
It hits Sanji harder than he’d ever admit, simply because it’s the truth. He does, and it’s not even a fact that warrants Roronoa any medals for noticing. Sanji has always worn his heart on his sleeve, too big to fit inside his chest. Anyone within a half-a-mile radius and under water could see it, bright red and pulsing for attention.
The thing is, Roronoa doesn’t seem to like it—that sort of stuff.
Sanji has paid no attention to Mosshead past noticing him in the halls. Come on, the guy’s pushing 6’0 inches tall in high school and has green fucking hair. He’s impossible to miss. But the point is, he doesn’t look like a romantic. Exhibit A: this pathetic excuse for a confession. To be fair, Sanji can’t bring to memory the people Green Hair usually hangs around with; it’s definitely not girls, trust him, Sanji would’ve remembered if there were girls, but granted, Roronoa is clearly not interested in them. If he’d been going around confessing to other boys though, Sanji would know. The entire school would be talking about it. Wouldn’t it?
But Zoro is clearly not in his element right now. Which means an effort was made.
An effort that Sanji doesn’t find himself at the receiving end of very often—or at all. Which is the only reason why his heart missed a fraction of a beat just then.
Fuming and betrayed by his own body, Sanji can only bite back.
“Yeah, well, it’s obvious you don’t know what you’re doing, ‘cause your love letter was shit.”
It shouldn’t be this satisfying, seeing Mosshead's expression fall into some resemblance of offended.
“That wasn’t a love letter.”
“Clearly!”
“No, ugh–!” Finally, Sanji is not the only one visibly losing his fucking mind. “It was just a way to get you here. Why would I write a letter when I can just say it to your face?”
At this point, Sanji might actually get the fight he came here for. Good.
“God, you’re such a brute. You wouldn’t get it.”
“You’re right, I don’t–!”
“And you know what?!” This, Sanji knows. The very moment his already short fuse of a temper goes up in flames, and how it burns coming out of his mouth. “What sort of shitty confession even is this?! This is nothing! You just walked up and–and asked me out! I don’t even know you, why would I say yes?!”
“Hey! That’s–”
Sanji has had enough of whatever the fuck this is. “Well, a tip for you, asshole: next time, maybe try an actual letter! More effort and less glaring,” he walks away, hands in pockets and ears flushed neon, but not before turning over his shoulder to yell one last time. “And do a proper note, or else people will think you’re picking a fucking fight!”
“Is that what you–? Hey, wait!”
THE ART OF LOVE LETTERS II
The tool used to write the letter in question is also of huge importance. It can say a lot about the person writing it; a fountain pen is a classic choice, and Sanji’s personal favorite. Those gel ball points that are popular with girls nowadays are pretty cute too, especially if they have that kind of round, neat handwriting. And they come in a variety of colors! Sanji would love to use a bright pink tone to highlight certain words, or maybe color match them to his beloved’s eyes.
And the words, of course. The very content of a love letter, your very soul, dripped onto what was once a lifeless piece of paper. It’s what sets everything in motion—the wind blowing on the sails of romance. Short and sweet, or pages upon pages of unfiltered feelings, all cards on the table so the person reading it has no space to doubt your feelings for them. Of course, there’s always the option of a poem. Writing your own is preferable, obviously, but borrowing someone else’s words when you haven’t got ones of your own has its merits too, when done with pure intentions.
A love letter is, above all, meant to be savored. The paper, the pen, the words, and the feelings carefully swirled into them—they all mean something.
Sanji knows if he were to ever receive one, it would be his most cherished possession.
*
“I rejected him, of course.”
Usopp doesn't seem surprised. Gin nods, his leg going up and down in a nervous tick.
“Man, must’ve been rough for the poor guy,” Usopp supplies, very unhelpfully, since Sanji's trying not to think about Green Hair at all.
No, not trying. He’s succeeding. Usopp's insistence on the subject is nothing more than just annoying.
“For him? What about me?! The first confession I ever got, and it was a complete waste of my time, not a single redeeming quality to it.”
Sanji only hopes his anger does a decent job of hiding how heartbroken he actually feels.
It’s stupid, he knows. Just—he had a plan. A vision. His first confession would happen in high school—at first it was supposed to be back in elementary, but that came and went and not a single girl breathed his way, so Sanji had to rearrange his expectations accordingly. It would be from a girl, of course, who'd been watching him from afar without Sanji ever noticing. She would be feverish over the possibility of rejection, but still go for it and be rewarded for her troubles once Sanji accepted her confession and showered her with all the affection she deserved. They would then become high school sweethearts who grow up, marry each other, and ride happily ever after into the sunset.
Now Roronoa ruined it.
“Ah, that’s why you spent the entire weekend sulking."
Yeah, well. Like he said, it's all ruined, and Usopp, his supposed best friend, is not being very supportive right now. Sanji is not pouting, by the way.
“At least you’re not in the same class,” Gin puts a hand on Sanji’s shoulder to offer some comfort.
It sort of works. Sanji smiles back, the mere thought of having to see that stone cold face first thing in the morning chasing a chill down his spine. He shakes it off, literally, and sighs.
“I don’t ever want to see him again. I told him, I said ‘stay the fuck away from me, or I’ll put my foot through your eye’.”
Gin’s nodding again, hanging on his every word. But before he can say anything else, the sliding door to the classroom slams open, a loud clack of wood on wood reverberating through the walls. Some students turn to look, and the buzzing of their chattering dims.
And this is how Sanji knows there is no God, because standing right there, looking as grassy as ever, is one Zoro Roronoa. He zeroes his gaze on Sanji, and in four long strides gets right up in front of his desk, his presence cutting through the crowd of students like a blade. His face betrays nothing, the furrow of his eyebrows his default expression, as Sanji recently discovered. Mosshead doesn’t acknowledge either Usopp or Gin and simply slams an envelope onto Sanji’s desk.
The whole class has gone completely quiet now. The blond’s temper flared as suddenly as a struck match, anger like a whistling kettle. He immediately stands up, ‘cause he’ll be damned if he has to look up into that ugly mug.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sanji growls, seeing red. All eyes are on them.
Mosshead just nods at the envelope.
“The love letter you asked me for,” he states, loud and clear. Not a tremor in his voice.
Then, as swift as he came, he leaves.
*
Sanji planned on never reading that thing, ever. He stuffed it at the bottom of his backpack, crumpled up and forgotten.
He tries to hold on to the idle grudge that his social life is over like the normal teenager he isn’t, but Yonji splits Sanji’s lip open not even ten minutes after he gets home, and the following black and blue around his left eye is too big for the usual hide-under-fringe technique. Sanji’s gotten in trouble before for going to school after a particularly nasty beating, and catching the eye of a well meaning teacher who insisted on asking too many questions.
The thought of CPS knocking on their door is far from a hopeful one. Dreaded, actually; Judge's made sure of it.
Which means Sanji will have to skip class for at least a couple of days, or until Reiju comes back from her trip to help him cover it up with concealer.
All of which put things a little into perspective, the fiasco of this morning now in the back of his mind. Who would’ve thought?
It's late in the evening when Sanji goes down to his bedroom. He's shaking. His siblings like to think it's from fear, but that stopped a long time ago. Sanji himself likes to think it’s from rage, pure and distilled into his blood—the very culprit of it all. In reality, it's most likely from the chair Niji shattered into smithereens on his back a couple of hours ago.
It’s gotten worse since he started fighting back, but he'll die before he stops, and he quiets the voice in his head that insists that's exactly what’ll end up happening. He feels–
Sanji swallows that down dry. It doesn't matter how he feels.
The door closes behind him. It all happens in a daze, time slowing down, sticking to his limbs like molasses on teeth. Could be a concussion. Could also be that he’s finally gone crazy, throwing his backpack on the ground with haste, hands trembling in. His mind can barely register what he’s looking for, until he feels it. The crumpled edge of a paper under his fingertips.
THE ART OF LOVE LETTERS III
1. Start off with a sweet salutation, like “Dear darling”, “To my love”, or using a special nickname.
Curly,
2. Tell them why you’re writing a letter. Maybe it’s because you want to put your feelings into words, and express how much you love them. You’re so full of love, you just can’t hold back!
I’m writing this letter because you told me to.
3. In the next paragraph or two, get right to the heart of the matter. The more personal the better! Instead of rattling off a laundry list of traits that could come off sounding insincere, pick a couple of things you love about them as an individual and really focus on those.
Everyday you work towards being stronger, but you don't do it to hold power over others. I'm the same.
4. Be candid and specific. This is no time to hold back! The more specific you can be, the more romantic it will feel. Think about something they did that made you fall in love.
It's not just one thing. I've seen you giving shit to anyone who trashes food at the cafeteria, but you hold yourself to your own standards and never lets anything go to waste. You're bruised up all the time ‘cause you're not afraid to get hurt. You insisted on sharing that electrolyte drink you made with the opposite team, that one really hot day at soccer regionals. Then you kicked their asses and won by a landslide. Now you bring enough of it for everyone, every match. You don't back down from a challenge. You thought I was looking to fight you, and you approached me head on.
5. Nothing will beat closing out a love letter than with the words “I love you”! But if you’re looking for something more creative, you can always end your letter with what you want your future to look like with that person, or sum up how they have made you feel so far!
You make me feel more certain of my own values. You told me I don't know you and that's true, but like I said, I’ve been watching you.
I want you to do the same. I think if you were to look my way for a second, you could see something that you’d like.
6. Lastly, finish it off like it started; sweetly! Something like “Forever yours”, or “With all my love” would be perfect.
From
Mosshead.