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It had already been a painfully long day, and it wasn’t even noon. Sanji had begun meal-prepping at 4:30 this morning—his brain had so kindly rewarded his hard work with sleepless nights… again—yet he was still restless. Sanji checked his watch and felt almost personally offended to discover that it was only 11:00 a.m.
Every slice of a knife, every thump on the chopping board. Every gram and litre diligently measured. It was a reminder of what he was now. Not what he should be, or what they wanted him to be.
What his captain wanted. That was what mattered.
Sanji flopped down into one of the comfortable seats in the library, maybe a bit too hard judging by the couch’s angry screech, and picked up a large tome. He lounged there—one of the few times he allowed himself to do so—and allowed his eyes to wander along the page.
It was by no means the most interesting book he had ever read—some sort of shitty mystery book about a necklace and a few missing husbands. A bodice ripper was the best way to describe it. It was enough to allow himself to relax, though.
Sanji, honestly, didn’t have the time to read nowadays, he reflected as he flipped a page and was plunged into a risque scene with the widow and the detective. He grimaced as they began kissing sensually in the interrogation room. The descriptions continued to become more graphic as Sanji’s mind wandered.
Usually, he read cookbooks, memorised them, wrote alterations in his journal and then never looked at them again.
He read more when he was a kid. Fantastical adventures, deep-sea dives, flying high above the clouds. That was how he found his dream. An old, hand-bound book, clearly written by someone not illiterate—though not literate either—described (although not well), The All Blue. Choppy sentences and smudged ink didn’t matter though. A sea where all kinds of fish gathered, where everyone could live. Together.
If Sanji could make it there, nothing else would matter. Not that family, not that kingdom, not that-
He swallowed harshly and slammed the book down. They had just begun romping against the one-way mirror, and he wasn’t keen on imagining that.
No matter. Reaching the All Blue meant he could… cook any dish he ever wanted. Create new, wonderful types of cuisine. Be himself. Without reprimand, without hatred and vulgar insults. Without harsh blows and scalpels to the chest. It was freedom.
He let out a deep sigh, pushing the book back onto the shelf. Perhaps he had shoved a bit too hard, as the shelf thumped against the wall and sent a cascade of books tumbling gracelessly down.
Sanji reached a hand down and paused, frozen in shock. He could see his hand.
He shook his head, eyes squeezed tight like a vice. Of course, he could see his hands. Of course, his face was reflected when he looked in the mirror, a perfect mirror image. He shouldn't be surprised. He was born wrong; he knew this already.
He was born to be invisible. Yet he was born wrong.
Of course he was. He had been a mistake from the start.
He should really stop doing this. Stop being surprised to see himself in the mirror. Or see himself at all. He should stop.
That was easier said than done, when he kept waking up in the middle of the night, forgetting that he was following his dreams, clutching at his thin blond strands. He would sit there, back ramrod straight, cool sweat dripping down his hairline.
How could he forget? He was away from that shitty place now. The All Blue was within reach; he could feel it. He didn’t have to be invisible anymore.
During those dark nights when he was deprived of sleep, when he could still feel the cold press of that helmet, all he could do was stare at the pantry, cook, and read.
He put the books back on the shelf. Back to the kitchen, it was.
With each slice, he created something new. Forged from his blood, sweat, and tears. Served on a plate, decoratively designed to look gourmet.
Today, he served Fish Florentine. A simple bed of sauteed spinach (which he had recooked about twice over, letting himself have the scraps.), a delicate slice of pan-seared halibut and a generous helping of Mornay sauce poured over the top and swooped tastefully around the edge of the plate.
He served this with homemade juice, a side of garlic bread and some fruit, if any of the crew craved something sweet.
Setting the plates and cutlery in place, he watched as each crew member barrelled in, excited for another meal. He sat down quietly, allowing himself to observe. He could feel himself calming as he watched his nakama enjoying themselves.
He reached for his fork and jumped when he saw his hand. He grabbed the cutlery and forced a deep breath, fingers straining with how tightly he held it.
The taste of anxiety and tobacco tainted the Florentine, his mouth dry and throat hoarse, flavours hidden beneath.
Luffy didn’t leave after lunch. Not like he usually did, with a yell of “THANK YOU!” and dashing back out onto the deck again.
This time, he stayed; watching. Waiting, maybe.
Sanji waited for the telltale sound of sandals slapping against polished wood, the door swinging open and shut with a whoosh. It never came.
Sanji stood at the sink, scrubbing away at the plates with clumsy hands. He was lucky he hadn’t broken anything, with how many times the ceramic had slipped out of his soap-slick arms.
Luffy was being oddly quiet. He was seldom quiet, and when he was, it was only because he needed to be. Sanji twisted to look at his captain and flinched when he found him standing barely a foot away.
He dropped the plate—this time it did break—and backed into the counter, hitting his tailbone against it with a crack. He sucked in a harsh breath and tried to exhale as slowly as he could. The ceramic crunched under his dress shoes.
For some indiscernible reason, his throat tightened, and his heart beat erratically. Despite his attempts to keep his breathing steady, the breaths he managed to suck in were harsh and hurried.
A throbbing pain crackled up his spine; His head began pounding. Sanji bit his lip, hard. His hands balled into tight fists. His knuckles blanched as he swayed against the counter.
Why did it hurt so much?
“Sanji?” Luffy asked. His voice sounded a thousand miles away. Underwater, blocked behind a wall of cotton balls and foam. His hand reached out to brush against Sanji’s sopping wet forearm, sending jolts up his spine.
He flinched.
He knew the touch didn’t hurt. Why did it feel so painful?
His breaths were coming out short and aborted, choking on air.
Sanji raised his hands, coming to clutch at his hair. He had broken the plates; he had messed up the library; he hadn’t slept. Why was everything so… so?
Why was he so stupid? He couldn’t do anything right. The food he made didn’t even taste good, what with the way he had to force himself to swallow.
Every touch felt like a burn. Throbbing and blistering. No matter how soft it was.
“Sanji? Sanji!” Soft, rubbery hands gripped his elbows, trying to tug his arms down.
The hands tightened, tugging at him.
The hands tightened—bruising his arms and making him wince in pain—he cried out pathetically. Snickers echoed from above him, prepubescent and sneering.
“What is it, Sanji? Can’t play rough?” A powerful kick landed in the gap between his ribs and pelvis, making him cough. He scrambled, trying to escape.
Squeeze.
A scream was ripped from his throat as his brothers grabbed him. Hands everywhere. His shoulders, arms, and legs. Tearing him apart; ripping him to pieces.
Tighter.
He could feel his hands tingle, his muscles giving way as he slumped in their hold, still screaming.
“Father!” He said, as the air tore from him, wrenching his lungs. His breath came out in short, panting bursts. He screamed—screeched when one of his brothers pulled especially hard on one of his limbs.
He felt his bones shift out of place.
“Father?” He choked, limp and desperate, spit gargling in his throat.
Staring down the hallway, where his father stood. Where he had been standing the whole time.
He pushed. Sanji shoved the arms out of the way, ignoring the surprised gasp and thud that came behind him as he ran out.
He wrestled with the doorknob, slamming the door open. He tripped over his own feet as he ran down the stairs, his body slamming into the railing of the ship, to see no escape.
Miles and miles of blue. There wouldn’t be land for days. His throat closed as he leaned further over the railing. He should be able to swim faster. He should be able to get away.
He should’ve-
A hand grabbed his collar and wrenched him away from the railing. He stumbled and hit his head on the floor behind him, the grass on deck offering some cushioning.
The world spun. Sanji was trembling and shaking with every breath.
His limbs trembled as he tried to get away.
A hand held him down. Large, rugged, warm.
“What the fuck are you doing, cook?” The figure attached to the hand spat at him. The hand trembled against his chest. “Trying to go for a swim in your suit?” The hand teased, although it sounded twisted with something akin to worry.
Sanji stayed silent. They didn’t like it when he talked.
“God, Curly Brows, speak up! Did something happen? Got your panties in a twist, or what?”
He blinked the tears from his eyes. His head was pounding, and he had snot all over his face. He raised his gaze to find…
“Yonji?” he wheezed. ‘Run!’ he thought to himself. His limbs locked, his muscles giving way. ‘Run!’ he told himself.
Yonji’s face twisted in confusion, brow raised and lips curved into a snarl. “Who the hell is Yonji?” The hands grabbed his face and pulled him closer. “Cook, what’s wrong? There was this noise from the kitchen, and suddenly you’re acting… weird.” He made a face, crinkling his nose and furrowing his brows. If Sanji hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it was confusion. Or even concern.
Yonji would never be concerned about him. His hands trembled as they knotted themselves back into his hair; his body curled up instinctively. This was another one of their games.
They would act nice, and then when Sanji had just begun to trust again, they would go back to normal.
“I’m s-sorry,” he warbled. “Please don’t be m-mad at me; I-I can’t help it.” He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Yonji let out a confused noise and let go, shuffling to sit next to Sanji. “Can’t help what? The hell happened in there?” They did not touch. There was no yelling.
“I’m s-sorry I’m not the way I’m m-meant to be,” he said, breaths beginning to feel more full, limbs still wound tight and ready to spring up. Preparing himself to run once more.
A few minutes passed, and he winced every time Yonji let out a shaky breath.
“Right,” Yonji said, fists wound tight through the gaps in Sanji’s vision. “I’m gonna ask you some questions. And you’re gonna answer them, ‘kay, cook?” He said gruffly, turning to look at him.
Sanji nodded.
“Who am I?”
Sanji gulped. The fog in his head was steadily clearing. “Yo-“ He gulped, hands ruffling through his hair anxiously. “…Zoro?” He forced out.
“Good, you do remember who I am. Thought you hit your head or something. ‘Yonji’… what a stupid name.” He paused and snickered to himself, smirking. “Kinda like Sanji, which is also a stupid name,” Zoro chuckled quietly to himself, leaning back on the warm grass.
“That’s beside the point. Next question. What did you mean by the whole ‘I’m not the way I’m meant to be’ thing? Did you fuck up dinner? It tasted fine to me.” Zoro shrugged and shuffled—slowly shifting into a more comfortable position—stretching out.
Sanji’s lip curled, and he turned to glare at him. “You’ll eat anything, you great, big brute!”
Zoro raised an eyebrow.
“I… Look, I just didn’t have the best family, right? I’m not what they wanted. It’s whatever.”
Zoro snorted. “‘It’s whatever’, oh please, Pretty Brows. You ran outta that kitchen like someone was gonna kill you.”
Sanji felt his face crumple, a strangled sob finding its way out. He could feel Zoro’s stare.
A hand reached up to his head, and wrangled his fingers away from his scalp, yanking his hands away. The hand rested there a moment, large, rugged, and warm. It ruffled softly through his hair before it left.
“Gonna rip out all your hair like that.” He said gruffly, sitting up.
“Cook, I don’t care about your family. I really don’t care what they think, or what they want. They don’t know shit if they think you’re not good enough.” He muttered, grunting as he stood.
“Luffy’s complaining, go give him a snack.”
Suddenly, the rest of the world came back into view. The sound of Luffy whining, the idle chatter on deck. The look Zoro gave him as he sat on the grass.
Zoro turned and walked away.
But not without carding his fingers through Sanji’s hair first.