Chapter Text
The local ice rink and town jewel, Merry Go, was booming with festivities and events as the calendar flipped to December. Everyone had been anticipating it; there wasn't much to do in a place with less than ten thousand people besides play sports, so Merry Go was where most of it happened.
Families arrived in droves to make the most of the holidays, transforming the roller hockey and lacrosse scene into a winter wonderland hangout. Teenagers wobble arm-in-arm when stepping onto the ice, and older couples glided in romantic, lazy loops. It was easy to get starstruck by all of the Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling and strung along the white walls of the building. The place was spirited and lively, smiles spreading like a contagion.
Sanji had grown up in this atmosphere. He breathed the holiday spirit in like a fresh breath of air, equally excited to figure skate again on a familiar frozen scape. Merry Go had been his favorite practice rink since he was a kid; a place where he'd learned how to fall, how to stand, and how to fly on magical blades. Skating at other rinks didn't feel the same; so every year he waited, somewhat impatiently, for Merry Go to prepare their ice and shift from summer sports to winter.
He and Zeff started out with nothing back then. His adoptive father was aggressive and loud, but a soft person at heart. He knew this because they were the same in aspect, showing love through action rather than kind words.
Zeff opened up his own diner business just two blocks down from Merry Go to help fund Sanji's training and admissions. They fought tooth and nail about pretty much everything, bitching over issues not worth giving the time of day, but they could always agree on three things: love for the diner, love for skating, and love for each other.
As sappy as it sounded, Sanji was thankful. You'd never think a person unrelated by blood would go so far to make your aspirations come true. Zeff pushed him to skate when he was self-conscious about money. He pushed him when he felt like he wasn't good enough to even compete in sports. Zeff was rock solid where Sanji was weak, and he couldn't deny anything about it.
This year, however, Sanji was going to take a different direction in figure skating no matter what Zeff said.
It didn't make a lot of sense to be unsatisfied when he had all the support in the world. He had a great dad and amazing friends. Even a large group of townspeople cheered on his figure skating from the sidelines. His biggest pillars of support were his duo partner, Perona, and their internationally renowned coach, Dracule Mihawk. Sanji still didn't know how his old man had coerced Mihawk from the top of the sports world to be his coach, of all people. If Sanji played his cards right, a genius coach like him would help raise his figure skating to even greater heights. Which was why this decision felt so selfish, like Sanji was stabbing everyone he cared about in the back.
He wasn’t going to compete in any athletic events or tournaments this season. Instead, he was going to focus on his weaknesses and push to overcome them. He wanted time to himself, to think about what mattered most and how he wanted to approach his sport. Was it really worth devoting this much time and effort into figure skating if he wasn't happy with it? Was there anything else he should be aware of—something that would make him just as happy? Sanji chalked it all up to having a mid-life crisis. No matter how close he was to his supporters, he didn’t believe they really understood his uncertainty. He was happy, but at the same time he wasn’t happy.
Mihawk accepted Sanji's decision with a flat, unreadable expression. "What you seek is beyond anything I can teach you," he said. "Do as you please. I can't force you to compete."
And that was it. No lecture. No sharp, condescending guidance or remarks about wasted potential. It would’ve been normal for Mihawk to tell him no, it was not unlike him to push Sanji, but he didn’t. The silence was acceptance, no matter how intense his gold Hawk Eyes were. They went about their day like the conversation didn’t even occur.
Perona didn’t take it nearly as well.
She threw a tantrum worthy of national broadcast, pointing her pink manicure at him in accusation and screeching about his lack of drive. Sanji couldn’t remember how many times he groveled and apologized for causing her distress, face flat to the ground in an embarrassing spectacle. How dare he upset such a beautiful, perfect woman? It was his own fault he was lacking, and he was blind to not realize his decision would affect her too. Every time they skated together, Sanji was blown away by her raw talent—she was too good to be his partner. How could he go through with this?
In the end, Perona reluctantly agreed more practice without competitive pressure might be good for them both.
Now she was posting a ridiculous amount of candid photos on social media, showing off the warm sandy beaches of her spontaneous overseas vacation. Mihawk disappeared at the same time, out of town to observe a figure skating winter invitational, the same one Sanji and Perona should have participated in.
So, because of his own stubborn volition, Sanji was alone. Alone in practice. Alone in his head. It was a new change of pace and he struggled to settle in. But after a few days, the sharper emotions dulled, and he finally started to focus on his training.
When Merry Go opened reservations, Sanji mapped out his entire schedule for private practice and filled the rest of his free time with public skate hours and shifts at the diner. It felt structured and manageable. Like maybe he could figure himself out.
At surface level, Sanji had his shit together. Deep down, he felt hollow.
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Every morning before the sun came up, Sanji was coffee-fueled and exercising, preparing and stretching his muscles until they burned. He tried on his new black training suit, checking himself in the bathroom mirror out of habit. Blue diamond accents glimmered down his ribs and thighs, bringing him a small but steady sense of pride. The clothing was skin-tight but flexible, entirely comfortable. Feeling satisfied, he stuffed his bag with a change of clothes and slicked back his blond hair with extra-hold gel. It stayed in place; smooth and precise. Everything Sanji wanted to be on the ice.
He always looked like a completely different person when figure skating. When he put on his suit, he was wearing the skin of someone confident and important, a guy who didn’t worry about things like loneliness or happiness.
Today’s a hockey day, Sanji reminded himself, and his anxiety spiked needlessly.
He grabbed a jacket then made his way to the ice rink. The entire lot was covered in a messy blanket of crunchy slush and blackened snow, already jam-packed with cars and bundled bodies this early in the day.
“Careful, don’t slip on the ice!”
“Mom, hurry,” the little girl insisted, pulling her mother forward. “I want to watch hockey!”
Sanji quick-stepped around them, clutching his gym bag a little too tightly. His shoe slipped on the asphalt, just enough to stop his heart, while the mother whispered to her daughter, See? What did I tell you?
Sanji huffed a laugh and continued toward Merry Go’s front entrance, too anxious to be embarrassed. They weren't the only ones who wanted to watch hockey.
I wonder if he’s practicing today?
It was ridiculous, embarrassingly so, but it didn’t stop him from wishing. Whether his crush was present or not, an up-and-coming figure skater had enough on his mind—especially during the holiday season.
Sanji's time block was right after the hockey team East Blue Icebreakers. They’d been practicing at Merry Go for years, even holding occasional exhibition games, despite not being officially based there. It had something to do with their coach being emotionally attached to Merry Go… or being banned from the bigger rink on the other side of town. Knowing Coach Garp, both were equally possible. Whatever the reason, Sanji had gotten used to seeing the Icebreakers around. Too used to it, if he was honest with himself.
The moment he stepped into Merry Go’s lobby, Sanji twitched at the familiar sounds; shouting, sticks smacking ice, bodies crashing, unhinged laughter echoing against the boards.
His entire nervous system recoiled in a nauseous mixture of eagerness and dread. He stomped toward the locker rooms after checking in, conflicted about hockey as a whole. He liked watching one specific player move across the rink. He just… hated everything else that came with it.
Sanji rushed to change into his suit. He tied his skates too tightly. He was already warm from irritation, so he shucked his jacket and crammed it into his gym bag. He fixed his slicked-back hair even though it didn't need fixing. Adjusted his skates. Pulled at his gloves. Twice, then a third time.
He wasn't procrastinating.
Sanji balanced on his blades and made his way along the boardwalk surrounding the rink to wait out the rest of hockey practice. A modest crowd scattered the bleachers; family, friends, and die-hard fans. No one paid him any mind while he found an empty stretch of seating. Everyone was busy watching the game as it turned heated.
A full scrimmage. Coach Garp was shouting like a man possessed, pointing wildly from one side to the other. Sanji didn’t know much about the game, just scraps of information absorbed over the years because Zeff was best friends with the Icebreakers’ coach. The two geezers were full of shit and grey hair, talking sports every day like they were swapping war stories.
A few men slammed and scraped into the glass and Sanji scoffed, dropping onto the lowest bleacher at floor level to fold his arms and judge them. Absolute brutes, every last one of them.
And yet, there was one gorilla among the many who drew Sanji’s gaze immediately, every time, without fail.
The crush had started earlier that month and Sanji despised admitting it, even in the privacy of his own head. The memory of when it started was clear and impossible to shake—the sudden, unwelcome bloom of feelings surfacing to raise his blood pressure and set his face on fire.
It had completely and utterly blindsided him. Since then, hockey wasn't just a noise in the background of his every day.
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#3 was an Icebreakers hockey player molded from pure chaos, wearing a vibrant green sticker of a moss ball on his helmet and apparently operating on only two brain cells at any given time. The name RORONOA was printed bold and black across his back. Sanji had always noticed him, but only in the way someone notices a silent alarm that won’t stop vibrating. He was always the center of attention in his team and stood out in the most daring in plays. There was no doubt the man was pure jock, flexing his immeasurable strength and exuding an aura Sanji could feel from the opposite end of the building. RORONOA had zero awareness for the people around him, taking up multiple hockey sticks—exactly three, usually—and swung them like swords at his friends, whenever he was bored at practice. There was no doubt he had a track record for misconduct and high-sticking.
He was loud. He was reckless. Sanji hated him.
Or… he thought he did.
Until that first day, they spoke. Sanji had just finished running through a chunk of his routine: jumps, spins, footwork, checking off each item with the brutal precision of someone who couldn’t afford to fail. The East Blue Icebreakers and their fans had cleared out long before, and the rink had settled into a peaceful hush while the zamboni cleared and resurfaced the ice.
The sound of Sanji's blades cutting through the fresh slate was like music. His sweater lay draped over a bleacher beside his water bottle. By the time he slowed to a halt at the rink’s entry, he was panting and thirsty, muscles trembling from the extra effort he’d poured in. He’d pushed himself too hard again because the wounds of his own incompetence were still raw. Coach Mihawk's silent scrutiny burned his confidence to the ground in their last conversation about dropping out for the year.
Sanji wiped sweat from his brow, smoothing a stray blond hair, his breathing uneven and mind grim. He stepped onto the boardwalk, reaching for his water bottle, when a deep voice called out from the bleachers, strong and clear:
"Good work."
Sanji stopped mid-step, turning toward the voice and locking onto the fully-geared hockey player sprawled across two rows of seats. The man's long legs stretched out and claimed the bench beneath him like a throne. A vibrant moss ball sticker on the helmet stuck out like a warning sign.
Oh, it's him. The bold black #3 on the uniform only confirmed it.
The player’s cage mask and helmet hid most of his face, an extra black cloth shielding his nose and mouth, but his eyes were exposed, and very clearly fixed on Sanji. There was no mistaking the shout out was meant for him. It was a bit jarring; what was this guy even doing here?
RORONOA must’ve fallen behind or gotten separated from his team like a lost puppy, because all the hockey players had left Merry Go hours ago, long before Sanji stepped onto the ice. And yet here he was, lounging like he had no intention of ever leaving, sitting a little too close to Sanji’s belongings for comfort.
Well… if fifteen feet could be considered close. The bleachers stretched endlessly, completely empty, and this asshole had somehow chosen the exact spot near Sanji’s stuff to invade. It looked entirely too suspicious.
“What you say?” Sanji replied coolly as he walked to the bench, grabbing his water bottle and hand towel. He’d heard him perfectly, Sanji just wanted the brute to say it again. Maybe he wanted proof he was talking to him.
RORONOA didn't hesitate. "I said, good work," he repeated. "You landed seven double axels today, that's two more than last week. Your progress is amazing."
Sanji fumbled, a strange shiver shooting fast down his spine. He straightened up quickly, gripping the towel with both hands. How in the hell did some random ass hockey player know exactly how many jumps he landed during practice?
“You’ve been watching me,” he blurted. Not really a question. He stared at RORONOA with raised brows, too stunned to follow up. Was he a fan? A stalker? But Sanji hadn't noticed him anywhere but on the ice.
It took too long for the player to give an answer. Instead, he rubbed around the back of his neck, a surprisingly shy gesture, and stood. RORONOA snagged his hockey stick from where it leaned beside him, then hopped down from the bleachers with smooth, athletic ease. Skates and all, he landed on the boardwalk without so much as a hint of unbalance and headed toward the exit, leaving Sanji with a cliffhanger and a dropped jaw.
Sanji could only silently watch after him, pulse thundering in his ears. His breath caught. He pressed a palm to his chest as if it would steady the wild rhythm beneath his ribs.
Someone had been watching him. Paying attention to him.
For how long?
No one but Mihawk and Perona knew the work he’d been putting into his double axels, not even his old man Zeff. No one saw how many times he’d stumbled and crashed, slammed ass-down or shoulder-first onto the ice trying to perfect a jump. Bruises littered his body, hidden under his suit. He jumped and jumped and jumped and kept going until his skin burned from the frigid air and his body screamed at him to stop.
#3 RORONOA had seen him.
Some no-brain, protein-packed hockey jock had noticed him—his effort.
It scrambled every single one of Sanji's wires in the best possible way.
He sat down abruptly and scrubbed his gloved hands over his face, smothering the stupid, giddy smile spreading across his mouth. His shoulders shook with a laugh he tried and failed to contain.
Holy shit. He was happy. He was so stupidly, absurdly happy. What the hell?
He would brand it into his memory as one of the happiest days of his life. He couldn’t even explain why it mattered so much that someone outside his tiny circle had analyzed his progress to such a fine degree. RORONOA, previously determined to being thick and simpleminded like the rest of his kind, counted Sanji's successes and failures from week to week like it was as easy as breathing. Was it really a big deal? His heart said yes. His mind still hadn't caught up.
It took weeks to come down from that high, except he never really did. The fire never left his chest; he carried it everywhere like a torch.
Sanji began searching for RORONOA without meaning to, eyes darting through the bleachers, the locker corridor, the reflections off the glass. Fixated and curious about if he was around, about what he was doing. Yeah, he was a little obsessed. Before Sanji even realized it, his pulse kicked into a frantic, eager frenzy every time he spotted RORONOA on the ice. Whenever his silly moss sticker was visible in the distance. Every time those sharp eyes marked him in the crowded stands, like he was looking for Sanji too.
And just like that, a hockey player had become the center of Sanji’s entire figure skating world.
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Sanji blinked himself out of the memory just as a particularly loud shout tore through the air. The unmistakable crunch of blades dug into the ice, followed by a triumphant whoop. One voice rose above the rest, high and noisy, coming from #56 MONKEY.
"Yo! Nice save!" The smaller player cackled as he rocketed after the swarm of bodies barreling toward the opposite goal.
And there he was, #3 RORONOA charging across the rink with wild, unconscious energy, his bright green sticker gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. He skated hard toward center like momentum itself had chosen him as a vessel.
Sanji clasped his hands together in his lap, fingers tightening as his feelings surged to the surface. He had no idea how things had gotten to this point. One stupid person had become the root of so much internal strife, but #3 had the puck now, and Sanji was excited and tense. Almost unwilling, he leaned forward to get a better look,
As if he could feel Sanji’s attention like a physical touch, #3’s head turned in his direction. The masks hid half his face, the gear hid the rest, but Sanji felt the connection hit him square in the gut. For a suspended moment, he swore those dark eyes flickered with recognition. Like he knew Sanji was watching him.
Sanji’s pulse tripped into a dizzy, off-beat rhythm and his throat went dry. He straightened immediately, forcing a neutral expression. He told himself he wasn't affected.
He absolutely was.
Focus on anything else.
He couldn't.
#3 was flying, shattering every one of Sanji’s deeply held opinions about hockey as a sport. Big, powerful strides ate up the ice, his shoulders squared like he planned to bulldoze his own teammates. The longer Sanji watched him play, the more he noticed the control he had over his edges, the backward crossovers, the razor-thin stops executed with maddening ease. All of it done in bursts of speed that were measured and intentional.
This was nothing like #3's normal practice. If Sanji didn't know any better, he'd think the guy was suddenly trying to show off.
For who?
Sanji's heart answered before his brain could comprehend. He wished he knew what this player looked like. #3's face was protected behind thick equipment, but his eyes were determined. Impossible to ignore. Sanji wanted to know what color they were.
#3 intercepted the puck mid-glide, flicked his wrist with a practiced snap, and shot across the rink in a blur. He dodged two defenders with a smooth, instinctive swerve that made Sanji suck in a sharp breath. Then, without hesitation, he twisted at the waist, planted one skate, and launched the puck like a cannon into the upper right corner of the net. The goal horn blared with flashing lights and his teammates erupted in celebration.
Sanji clapped. Actually clapped, out loud. An excited cheer burst from him before he could stop it; A tiny, pathetic, “Yes!” left his mouth before he slapped both hands over it in horror.
#11 PORTGAS, the goalie who had missed the save, stumbled over and grabbed RORONOA’s jersey like he might body slam him out of spite. His threats were empty, though. The team was laughing, hollering, and pounding #3 on the back with the heavy affection.
Sanji just sat there, cheeks warm, heart fluttering like a love-sick idiot, watching his crush shine.
"Perfect goal! Amazing!"
"You're actually scary, man."
"What's the occasion?! That play was mean!"
Sanji averted his eyes like he was doing something indecent. He tugged irritably at a loose strand from his sweater sleeve. This was humiliating. He refused to have such a blatant fixation on some masked, rowdy, loud-mouthed, no-brain hockey jock with a stupid helmet decal.
Except…
Sanji’s eyes lifted again, biting into his lip.
Except he skated beautifully. Like the ice was meant for him. Sure, he was big and bulky and probably smelled perpetually like sweat and questionable decisions, but the way he moved was nothing short of art. A lithe predator disguised as a brute, fierce and calculated, and Sanji was the prey.
He was going to be eaten alive.
Coach Garp’s whistle shrieked through the rink, making him jump. The man’s booming voice gathered the players like cattle, signaling the end of their practice game. They skidded to a messy halt around him, forming a semicircle while he tore into them with his usual mix of affection and verbal assault.
Sanji knew what it was like to be under Coach Garp's supervision, having been on the receiving end of such meetings whenever he came over to hang out with Zeff to watch a game on TV. Sanji was curious anyway and leaned forward, pretending to stretch so he didn’t look like he was eavesdropping. He was absolutely eavesdropping, glued shamelessly on the only player that mattered.
“—and I expect all of ya brats to be on your best behavior at the Christmas event,” Garp barked, thumb hooked in his belt, other hand stroking his graying goatee. “A lot of important people will be there from the state hockey association. Not to mention a few legends and personal friends of mine. Half the damn town’s involved, so you’re gonna be well-behaved all-stars worthy of the Icebreakers uniform!”
#11 PORTGAS groaned like he was being sentenced to death. “Gramps, I think I speak for everyone here when I say we’re not interested in going to any damn Christmas fundraiser. Every year it’s a bunch of geezers with boring-ass speeches. Can’t I just drop off some cash and go home?”
“Absolutely not!” Garp thundered. “Community spirited-ness! Merry Go administration went through a lot of trouble to set this up. Attendance is mandatory, especially for you and your brother."
#56 MONKEY shot his hand up like an overeager student. “Is there gonna be food? I’ll go if there’s food.”
“There will be food,” Garp grumbled.
“Hell yeah!” MONKEY cheered. "Alright, I'm going!"
"It wasn't an option!"
A wave of chuckles and playful jeers washed through the team as they teased MONKEY for his bottomless stomach and one-track mind. It was the usual racket of boys being boys in the worst and best ways.
Sanji felt himself smiling with them, and RORONOA looked to him again. This time they held eye contact. Even at a distance, the pressure was magnetic, like the air thinned to a single trembling thread. Sanji’s breath stalled somewhere along the line as those dark eyes locked onto his, curious and focused, making him feel suddenly, stupidly exposed. It wasn’t like before, when he’d convinced himself he’d imagined it. This was unmistakably for him. This hockey player was seeing him again.
Sanji's heart gave one hard, traitorous thump, and he couldn’t bring himself hide away. RORONOA pulled at him, urging him toward a thought he’d been avoiding all this time: he wanted to talk to him again. He wanted to hear his voice again. He needed to see that strange shyness up close and confirm the moment in November wasn’t a one-off fluke. Sanji was sure there were so many other things that RORONOA could show him.
The longer their eyes lingered, the more unsettling certainty bloomed. These feelings weren't going away. He didn’t want them to. Was he falling in love? Was it possible to love someone you knew nothing about?
PORTGAS rested his hockey stick on his shoulder, nearly smacking MONKEY in the head, though MONKEY didn’t even flinch as he was wrapping his arms around the guy's neck from behind. He just kept talking, unfazed by the constant mischief of his teammate.
“The ice rink is hosting, yeah? Who else is going to this thing besides us?”
Garp hummed thoughtfully, taking up his clipboard and flipping through the documents. “Well, there’s the association… the rink staff. Sponsors and family. A few local performing figure skaters and trainers will attend as well.”
Sanji stiffened as he listened.
Mihawk had told him months ago he was expected to show up and represent the figure skating portion of the annual Christmas fundraiser event. Mihawk was a pretty famous trainer, and Sanji and Perona were considered his top performers in this town. Originally, Mihawk was going to represent their company himself, but other matters came up that wiped his coach from the RSVP, so it landed on his senior, Perona. But now Perona was away on her tropical vacation, so naturally…
His stomach was in knots just thinking about it. There were a couple more weeks until the party. He had time to mentally prepare and at least pretend he knew what he was doing. There wasn’t much to do but show up and use his solo program as a casual performance. Thankfully it was choreography he already knew; it was only a matter of warming up.
“Figure skaters?” RORONOA said from the back of the group, his tone sharper than casual interest.
Fuck, I can barely hear him though, Sanji thought.
"That's right," Garp said, cramming his clipboard into his armpit. "One of the figure skaters is going to put on a show as incentive for more donations."
PORTGAS shot a look over his shoulder, a sly grin already spreading. “Why does that get your attention? You like figure skaters?”
RORONOA's eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. “And what if I do, Flame-brain? You got a problem?”
“Oh, damn,” PORTGAS laughed. “No problem at all, they're beautiful creatures… I’m just curious if you’ll even find your way to the Christmas party in time to meet one.”
“I’m gonna shove my stick up your—”
“That’s enough out of you punks,” Coach Garp barked, cutting him off. He smacked RORONOA’s chest with the back of his hand and gave him a shove hard enough to send him stumbling off the ice and onto the boardwalk. “You can tickle each other on your own time. Get changed and get out of my sight!”
The hockey players followed suit, boots clattering, voices overlapping as they crammed through the narrow door to the locker rooms while yanking off their helmets.
RORONOA glanced in Sanji’s direction before leaving, quickly searching—but Sanji was already gone.
He slipped away the moment he felt the conversation edging too close to his insecurities. He couldn’t listen to it anymore. Sanji suddenly didn’t want to know what his crush thought about figure skaters, or what he’d think when he inevitably saw Sanji at the fundraiser. Better not to torture himself with guesses.
Sanji shoved his gloves into his pockets a little harder than necessary, breath coming quick and uneven. He didn’t bother untying his skates properly, just kicked and wrestled them off at the changing benches, yanking on his boots with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Absolutely not. He was not going to sit there like some desperate idiot imagining romance under Christmas lights like a scene from a cheap Hallmark movie. He could practically feel the hockey player talking, the echoes of his distant voice replaying in his skull even though he barely knew what the guy sounded like to begin with—
And what if I do?
He hated how he knew the cadence of it. It sunk right into him, sounding way too good and easy. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. RORONOA hadn’t even denied liking figure skaters. Was there any chance in hell it was Sanji he was interested in?
Yeah. No. There was no universe where he was about to unpack that right now. Fuck practicing today. He needed to get out of there.
Sanji dragged on his sweater, grabbed his skates, and marched his dignity through the lobby. A group of teenagers were making a racket by the front doors; he swerved around them without slowing down. The moment he stepped outside, the cold slapped him across the face so briskly his eyes watered. The air burned his lungs, but in a way that helped loosen the coil of nerves strangling him.
Work sounded good right now. He needed to work. He’d rather deal with Zeff yelling about improperly seasoned onions for a few hours than confront the emotional disaster blooming in his chest like a mold infestation.
His boots crunched rhythmically over the thin layer of fresh afternoon snow as he walked down the block. The Baratie Diner came into view, a warm yellow glow spilling through fogged windows with faint silhouettes of customers moving inside. It smelled like coffee, fresh bread, and home.
Sanji pushed open the door, the soft chime doorbell ringing above him.
“Hey,” Usopp greeted without looking up, hunched over the front podium like he was guarding a national secret instead of scrolling his phone. His long curly hair was tied back with a fraying bandana and his oversized Baratie apron had fresh splatters of stains as it hung crooked across his chest. Sanji’s closest friend at the diner and, unfortunately, the worst employee Zeff had the displeasure of supervising.
“Zeff is going to kill you if he sees you on your phone,” Sanji sighed as he stepped behind him, crouching to rummage under the counter for his name tag.
Usopp waved a lazy hand. “He’s going to have to catch me first. I’m not called ‘Usopp-the-quick-at-hiding-his-phone’ for nothing.”
“You call yourself that,” Sanji muttered.
“And others could call me that if they respected greatness,” Usopp said, still glued to his screen. “Besides, I really need to see how the winter invitational is going. They’re streaming commentary on YouTube right now. Live.” His voice dropped dramatically. “Live, Sanji.”
Sanji clicked his name tag into place with more force than necessary. “Tch. Couldn’t wait for the official recording?”
Usopp lit up with offended disbelief. “Wait? Do you tell a chef to wait for fresh ingredients? Do you tell a swordsman to wait to strike? Do you tell a—”
“Usopp,” Sanji cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please."
His friend looked visibly disgusted and judgmental, ignoring him. “I'm surprised you decided to stay home, though. It's not like this is kinda your thing.” He finally glanced up, squinting at Sanji’s face. “You good? You look like Perona broke up with you or something.”
Sanji stiffened. “We're not dating, first of all, we're a duo. And I'm fine, don't worry about it.”
Usopp’s eyes narrowed, catching more than Sanji wanted him to. “Right. Sure. Because you’re absolutely fine and definitely not hiding something. You must think I'm stupid.”
Sanji patted him on the back in the universal signal for shut up before I roundhouse kick you. “I’m going on duty now. Put your phone away before you get in trouble.”
“Uh-huh,” Usopp called after him, already back to his phone. “If you spontaneously combust on shift, I’m telling Zeff it was emotional damage I definitely tried to mitigate, and I get your tips!”
Sanji rolled his eyes and pushed through the double doors of the restaurant, letting the hum of the diner swallow him whole.
The Baratie Diner wasn’t at full dinner rush yet, but it pulsed with a low, constant noise which meant the staff was alive and moving. The open kitchen hissed with the sound of food hitting hot oil. A pan clattered. Someone yelled “behind!” in a voice far too dramatic for a humble prep line. The buttery scent of garlic rolls hung thick in the air, mixing with meat braised and rich drifting from the ovens.
It was amazing how this place instantly made Sanji feel a hundred times better.
Every table had mismatched holiday decorations courtesy of Sanji's father and owner, Zeff, as former pirate of the kitchen and current tyrant of the Baratie’s aesthetics. They looked terrible, but there was no reality in which Zeff would listen to Sanji’s opinions on decor. Red-toned booths were crowded with thrift-store ceramic trees, a few battery-powered candles with flickering bulbs, and cheap silver tinsel that had clearly survived numerous Christmas seasons. The glowing strings of golden lights coiled haphazardly along the ceiling beams were a nice touch.
Sanji always pretended to hate Zeff's holiday handiwork, but in truth, the cluttered mess was adored by all of their customers and Christmas wouldn't be the same without it.
There was no sign of his dad, so he quickly ducked behind the serving station, letting the familiar clink of glasses and soft hum of the mini fridge settle under his skin like a balm. If he focused on being useful, maybe he could scrub the damn hockey player's voice out of his head. He flipped through the nearest stack of papers, hoping the check boxes of incomplete tasks would ground him.
“Oi, Eggplant."
Zeff’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. Sanji cringed before he even turned to face it.
The old man stood at the other end of the station, hands planted on his hips with a white apron tied too tight around his rounded stomach. His mustache bristled with an annoyance that never really left his face. With all the grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times, Zeff strode over and reached out, smacking the paper out of his hands and pinning them back to the counter.
“You’re off work today. What the bloody hell are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’ve hurt yourself again at the rink—”
“What the hell is your problem?” Sanji snapped reflexively, snatching the checklists back up in defiance. “I decided not to skate today. Free labor; you should be thankful I stopped by."
“You and I both know you bleed my wallet dry, working or not.” Zeff’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a knife point. “Why aren’t you at practice? What’s the issue?”
“There’s no issue.”
“Biggest lie if I've ever seen one."
“Just—give me something to do,” Sanji said, the words tumbling out fast and feeling a little too raw and unguarded. “Anything.”
Zeff stared at him. A long, heavy, searching stare.
Sanji ignored the tight feeling crawling up his throat. He pretended to read the papers in his hand, none of the information actually making sense. Suddenly he didn't know how to read anymore and the clattering of the kitchen was buzzing and drawing distant. He didn’t want this to be a conversation. He didn’t want Zeff to peel him apart. Fuck, was he about to have a meltdown over a boy? There was no way in hell Sanji could explain these feelings to his dad and have it make sense.
Finally, Zeff let out a slow sigh and hummed, “Fine.” He bent down, grabbed a stray black apron hanging from a hook, and chucked it square into Sanji’s face. “You’re on prep duty. I need carrots and potatoes for a catering order."
Sanji peeled the apron off his mouth. “I want to cook.”
“Tough. Life’s full of disappointment. Now move, before I decide you’re waiting tables instead.”
Sanji cursed under his breath but tied the apron around his waist anyway, yanking the strings as part of his tantrum. He brushed past his father with enough attitude to make a point, yet still moved exactly where Zeff wanted him to go. Defiance only went so far in this kitchen and he didn't want to have his head kicked in today.
As he headed toward the dish rack to pick supplies, Zeff called after him in that gruff, irritated tone he used when he didn’t know how to say something softer.
“You can count on telling me the real reason why you’re not skating today, even if I have to wring it out of your scrawny little neck. I’ll come check on ya in an hour.”
Sanji teeth ground. "Can't wait."
He didn’t give Zeff the satisfaction of turning around. Instead, he snatched a few metal mixing bowls and slammed through the swinging doors of the dry pantry, letting them flap noisily behind him. The shelves were stacked high with canned tomatoes, bags of rice, crates of vegetables. Sanji loaded his bowls viciously with potatoes, carrots, and parsnips that definitely weren’t necessary but made him feel better to prep anyway, they were going to be needed for dinner. The bowls were heavy, clattering loudly as he carried it into the back kitchen.
One of the head chefs, Patty, bellowed at a line worker struggling with a batch in the fryer. “You call that golden brown? It’s still pale enough to haunt a lighthouse, you rookie!”
“Behind!” Another cook, Carne, shouted as he barreled through with a full tray, almost clipping Sanji before skidding around him. “Move your legs, skater-boy, some of us are working!”
Sanji rolled his eyes, dropping his haul onto an empty metal table and taking up a chair to start peeling. The insults were comfortable, if anyone believed it. Baratie staff were loyal, loud, and had the subtlety of bulls in a china shop; carbon copies of his old man. Sanji closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the smells and cacophony of voices.
Yeah, this was better.
But as he peeled the first potato with a harsh scrape, Sanji’s thoughts betrayed him, pulling up the image of RORONOA under bright white rink lights, sweaty and powerful, skating like he owned the damn world.
Sanji groaned out loud and peeled faster.
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