Archive of Our Own

According to his mama, being afraid is perfectly normal. Sanji has never seen anyone else get scared before, so he’s not sure how true that is, but he’d like to believe what she says.

His brothers, for example, never get scared, and especially not of the dark. He knows that because none of them have a problem with closing their doors at bedtime, and they don’t ask the servants to leave the curtains open a little bit. Because he doesn't want to get made fun of even worse, he says it's because he wants to see the moonlight through the window, which is partially true. Sanji just has never been a fan of the dark, and he doesn’t think he ever will be.

Of course, the only time he can visit Mama is at night, the sweet spot between when he’s been freed from dinner and when the servants make their rounds to check that he and his siblings are in bed, which is unfortunate. Walking alone in the dark gets scary, but he always makes sure to tuck a flashlight in his pocket and out of sight of his brothers. The first time he’d tried, he made the mistake of holding it in his hand, and Niji had thrown it against the wall and watched it smash into pieces. The rest of his brothers had laughed as he cried, and when he’d looked at Reiju for help, she had conveniently left the room.

Now, Sanji knows better, and as he slips through the heavy door that leads to Mama’s wing of the castle, the flashlight finds its home in his pocket. Freeing up one of his hands lets him readjust his hold on the box he’s carrying, a selection of pastries in his mother’s favorite flavors. He hopes he didn’t mess anything up this time - he never has been too good at visually telling the difference between sugar and salt.

Knocking on the door means he has to shift the box back to one hand, but he does it all the same and waits to hear for permission.

“Come in,” his mama says on the other side. When Sanji pushes the door open, leaning his entire body into the heavy wood, her tired face lights up. “Sanji! Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Mama,” Sanji says. Instantly, under the warmth of her smile and the sweetness of her voice, safety washes over him. Nothing compares to being in her arms, though, and Sanji makes it almost to her bed before stopping short.

During a thunderstorm a few days ago, Ichiji had told him there were monsters under the beds in the castle. Big, scary ones, with poison spit and rows of sharp teeth that ate useless little boys like him when they weren’t expecting it. Sanji was already in his bed, and Ichiji didn’t stay long, but the flashes of lightning made the trees outside his window look even creepier, and the room was somehow colder, and even though he had to pee really bad in the middle of the night he just squeezed his eyes shut and held it so he didn’t risk getting eaten.

Ichiji probably only made it up to scare him, but Sanji has been running and jumping into his bed ever since, sleeping in a ball in the middle with the sheets tucked up from over the edge. Just in case.

“Sanji?” Mama is looking at him now, the same way she looks at him when he talks about training or tests. Her eyebrows pinch together, but her eyes themselves somehow get wider as she waits for him. Sanji looks at her face, then back at the strip of darkness beneath her large bed, and swallows. He’s been told to be careful with Mama since she’s sick and needs to rest, so jumping into the bed will jostle her too much. Sanji glances back down at the ground, at the menacing empty space beneath Mama’s covers. His chest starts to hurt.

He guesses he takes too long trying to decide how he’s going to get onto the bed, because Mama holds out her arms as much as she can and says, “Come here, sweetheart, you’re okay.”

With his eyes trained on Mama’s pretty hair and not on the floor, Sanji clambers up the side of the bed one-handed and into his mother’s arms. Finally, he’s able to relax, inhaling the soft floral scent of the perfume she insists on wearing as he’s slowly maneuvered into her lap. Once he’s settled, she kisses the top of his head, brushing frail fingers through his bangs to sweep them aside and kissing the cheek that’s usually covered by them. When Sanji giggles, she presses a flurry of kisses to his face, and he laughs even harder.

“Mama, that tickles!” Sanji cries, wriggling in her arms. She laughs above his head, hugging his body closer to hers and squeezing gently.

“Sorry, Sanji,” Mama says, not sounding sorry at all. Instead, she sounds happy, which makes Sanji happy. He sags against her chest, his ear pressed up against her collarbone, and listens to the sound of her heartbeat. “What do you have there? Is that for me?”

“Oh, right!” Sanji bolts up. He had almost forgotten the food! Hopefully he hasn’t crushed the box.

The evening passes smoothly, as most of his visits with Mama pass. Sanji fidgets with his fingers while she takes a bite of the pastry, flaky crust falling into the box, and a weight lifts off his shoulders when she compliments him, eyes crinkling at the corners with her smile. He spends the rest of their time together swaddled in his mama’s arms, head tucked underneath her chin and fleeting kisses pressed into his hair. Mama lets him talk, and he tells her about sneaking into the kitchens to cook and what he’s been learning from reading his books. He makes sure to leave out the parts of his day that he knows make her sad.

After a while, his words drop off, and Sanji is content to lie back against his mother’s chest as it rises and falls underneath him. Her arms shift, and one hand starts to rub up and down his back. Sanji stifles a yawn into Mama’s gown.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” Mama teases, her voice low, and Sanji whines in protest. “It's late. I have a question for you before you go, honey.”

“Hm?” Sanji murmurs.

“Why did you not want to come on the bed earlier?”

Sanji’s stomach flips. He doesn’t want Mama to think it was her fault, but he also doesn’t want her to be upset, so he says, “I was scared.”

“Of what, baby?”

There’s no getting around it. “Ichiji told me there were monsters. Under the bed.”

“Under my bed?”

“Under all of them! He said they were going to eat me, and it’s so dark down there, and I…” Sanji trails off. Mama starts to rub his back again, so he takes a deep breath and focuses on the way her hands move in circles, not the way his chest is starting to hurt again.

“Your brother’s wrong,” Mama says. “There are no monsters under the beds of this castle.”

“But they’re going to-”

“They won’t do anything.” Mama leans back to look at him. “You’re such a brave little boy, Sanji. Even if you do end up having to face them, you’re strong.”

“I don’t feel very strong,” Sanji says, glancing away. He guesses if he says it indirectly, it isn’t that big of a lie. He knows he’s weak, far weaker than his siblings, but Mama gets sad when he talks like that. He can tell.

“Sometimes, I don’t feel very strong, either,” Mama admits. “But then I think of you, and your brothers and sister, and I become invincible!” She gives Sanji a little shake for emphasis, and he giggles despite himself.

“Whenever you’re scared, or afraid, or you need a little extra help, think of me. I’ll always be by your side.”

With a final kiss to his forehead and an “I love you”, Mama sends him on his way. Sanji pauses before shouldering through the big, heavy doors and out into the night. He grips the flashlight in his pocket and closes his eyes, conjuring his mother’s face in his mind. Her soft smile and gentle eyes guide him across the grass and back into his own bed, and he sleeps the best he has all week.

-

The helmet sits too low on Sanji’s face for him to see properly, but he knows his brothers are here based on sound alone.

Three sets of small feet thump down the hall. Their shoes echo differently against the stone compared to the guards that bring Sanji his food, with lighter taps. It makes sense, he guesses. They’re not as big as the fully-grown adult guards, so they wouldn’t make as much noise. Their laughter makes up for it, though, loud and shrill and mean with the promise of pain. If Sanji wasn’t already against the wall of his cell, he would be scrambling to get near it.

As the footfalls get closer, Sanji pulls his knees to his chest and tucks his head into his arms as best he can. He’s not very successful, and the cold metal of the helmet pinches at his skin, but he’s more willing to take it. He can handle a little discomfort. It’s miles better than what’s waiting for him outside the bars.

Suddenly, the noise stops. For a moment, Sanji can almost believe he’s alone, and barely lifts his head to glance at his brothers.

Usually, the three of them are antsy, impatient and itching for a punching bag or a lesson to teach him. Today, though, like a few rare days, they stop and stare outside the bars like Sanji is an animal. He’s read enough books to understand what a zoo is, and being looked down on by his brothers evokes a kinship with the creatures. Captivity has been his life for the past two months - at least, according to the tally he’s scratched into the stone wall - and curling up in the darkness is a last ditch attempt to hide from what he knows is coming.

“It’s honestly pathetic how hard he’s trying,” Ichiji says.

“Look at him, against the wall!” Niji jeers.

“Idiot.” Yonji grips the bars and pokes his head between them. “When has hiding ever worked for him? We always find him anyway.”

Sanji doesn’t say anything. Even if he could talk back, if he had the courage, there was nothing to say because Yonji was right. His brothers seem to have a sixth sense purely dedicated to detecting him. It didn’t matter if Sanji shut himself in his room, or curled up into a little ball, or was hidden away underground - he would always be discovered. Besides, Dad seemed to have a knack for finding him in the kitchen. His only safe haven, the only thing his family could never touch was his mother’s room. 

Somehow, that managed to get ripped away from him, too.

As the jingle of keys reaches his ears, Sanji squeezes his eyes shut. It plunges him into total darkness, but it’s better than watching one of his brothers jiggle at the lock. Distantly, he wonders where they even get the keys from. Are they left outside his cell? Does Dad have them? Does Dad give them the keys when they ask, just so they can come down here and torment him?

A hand fists in the collar of his dirty shirt, dragging him standing, and Sanji decides he doesn’t want to know.

“He can’t even open his eyes!” Niji says, crowing in Sanji’s face, proud of himself. Sanji holds himself stiff to try and stop the tremors wracking his entire body, but tensing up has the opposite effect on his muscles. Niji cackles when he notices the shaking.

“What a loser,” Ichiji says. Someone cracks their knuckles somewhere to his right.

Sanji opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the only sound that comes out is an aborted noise when Niji shakes him so hard his head bangs around inside his helmet.

“Come on, open up,” his brother says. When Sanji doesn’t move, he jams his fingers into the open gap in the helmet, prying one of Sanji’s eyes open himself. “You’re not hiding, are you?”

Trying to shrink away is useless when he’s pinned against the wall. The cold stone seeps into his back through his tattered shirt, and he writhes under Niji’s hands. Words finally come out, a quiet “please”, and the hand comes away from Sanji’s face before he’s being yanked forward to slam back against the wall. His head hurts, and there are spots in his vision as he gasps for air against the ringing in his ears. Mercifully, Niji drops his grip on Sanji’s shirt, and he crumples to the floor like a ragdoll.

Yonji’s foot comes up to his chest, pressing down and pinning him to the floor as Ichiji leans in.

“You really are a failure,” Ichiji says. “You can’t even follow a simple order!”

When Sanji whimpers, Yonji increases the pressure on his chest. Niji circles back around, and suddenly all three of his brothers are caging him in, their malicious grins creating an all too familiar picture. Their imposing figures blot out the light coming from the oil lamp on the wall across from his cell, shadows stretching on the ground.

“Guess we’ll just have to teach you,” Yonji says, the sneer on his face ominous in the backlit cell. The pressure lessens on Sanji's chest as Yonji lifts his foot, and he sucks in a greedy breath, only for it to be knocked out of him as a kick slams into his gut.

Taking a beating is something that, in his seven years of life, Sanji has gotten used to with time. He used to cry when it happened. Shock and pain and desperation flooded his senses with every hit, and the agony of being abandoned on the floor after his brothers left was unlike anything else.

Now, as Ichiji stomps on his hands, Sanji retreats into his mind. Sometimes it feels like he's floating, the pain of being hit turning dull and fuzzy as he watches his brothers beat him from above his own body. Detachment helps a little, and while he's not completely silent, it's certainly better than crying. His brothers tend to get bored when Sanji doesn't respond.

One thing he holds onto desperately, almost as a distraction, is the image of his mother’s face. If he focuses really hard, his memory plants the ghosts of her kisses on top of his hair between blows; spins the golden silk of her hair from straw behind his eyes. Mama told him he was strong, once, and even if he doesn’t really believe her, he can still try. For her sake.

Eventually, his brothers do get bored, and with one final, brutal kick, Sanji is left to heave on the ground. His chest hurts, and his sides scream in pain, and the room is spinning even though he’s laying down against the cold floor of his cell. He tries to raise himself up on his forearms, to get one last look at his brothers, but his wrist won’t support his weight, and Sanji collapses back to the floor with a cut off gasp.

“So pathetic,” Ichiji says from above.

Niji leans over to jeer at Sanji. “Maybe now, you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Next time, we won’t be so nice.” Yonji stomps his foot next to Sanji’s head, laughing when he flinches.

Reiju will be down in the morning to tend to his injuries. Breakfast will be brought down by a guard. For now, as Niji leaps up and snuffs out the lamp with one breath, Sanji is completely alone in the dark.

-

The chefs on the Orbit aren’t mean, not by any stretch of the word, but they aren’t exactly nice, either.

Granted, Sanji didn’t make the best first impression by stowing away on their ship, but he’s been sailing with them for about three months at this point, and routines are starting to form. He hasn’t been allowed to do much else besides the dishes and peeling vegetables, though, despite his insistence on working and pulling his weight. Most of the chefs tolerate him, even if they see him as a little runt getting in the way of things. They especially like to poke fun at him, laughing when he gets riled up.

Today, his job sees him planted at the counter on a stool, peeling what seems like a mountain of potatoes. There are crates of them at his feet, wooden ones that are too heavy for him to lift by himself. Every time he finishes one he has to call over a chef to heft another onto the counter. The process rinses and repeats for hours, and Sanji tunes into the hum of conversation around him.

“My little girl back home’s been having accidents,” a chef named Anton says. He scratches at his beard with the back of his hand, rubbing over the hairnet. “Lizzie’s only five, so it makes sense, but it’s still rough on Evanna.”

“She tell you what’s causing them?” Sonny asks, the young dishwasher stationed at the sink next to Sanji.

“Night terrors. Lizzie wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming her little head off about monsters and the dark, or so Evanna says. The bed’s always wet when she goes to hold her.”

“Monsters?” Sanji asks. He looks up from the potato in his hands, a cold bead of sweat trickling down his back. He’s never had a good track record with those kinds of stories.

“Don’t tell me you still believe in crap like that,” Costello says from across the kitchen. He’s turning over his shoulder to yell, and by the time Sanji’s head darts to look at him, the most he catches of the other man is the back of his ginger head.

“Of course he does!” Chip jeers from his station next to Costello. “Kid still believes in the All Blue, for crying out loud.”

The All Blue is a popular topic of mockery on the Orbit. Sanji’s gotten used to hearing laughter directed at him, especially when it’s tinged with meanness, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt his chest to hear again. The chefs around him cackle, and Sanji seethes with frustration and humiliation at the noise.

“Stop laughing at me!” Sanji yells, stabbing the peeler into the potato in his botched, angry attempt to peel it. He nearly manages to avoid cutting into the flesh of his palm.

“God, kid, you gouged a hole in that damn thing!” The mangled potato is wrestled out of his hand, and Sanji’s cheeks burn with embarrassment as Chip scurries back to his prep work. “What a waste.”

“Hey, go easy on him,” Sonny says, a soapy hand planting itself between Sanji’s shoulder blades. “He’s young. If the kid wants to believe in fairy tales and monsters, let him.”

Sanji flushes deeper and turns back to his potatoes. When Sonny takes his hand away, his upper back is cold for the rest of service, but the evening passes uneventfully. Any talk of the All Blue is thrown out with the scraps of peels.

It’s later that night, long after service and cleanup, that the actual problem arises. Someone’s blown out the candle on the wall.

The chefs on the Orbit sleep four to a room, in bunks below deck. They’re windowless rooms, with doors that close completely at night. Floorboards creak with every rock of the ship, and it gets cold and drafty, and the moisture lingering in the static air clings to Sanji’s sheets and skin. He can’t fall asleep unless other people are in the room and candlelight flickers on the wall. It’s always empty when he goes to bed, sent up earlier than the rest of the staff with a “growing boys need their sleep”, but the light helps him settle. The warm glow and the bodies that eventually trickle in soothe the chill that seeps into his bones, calming a stomach that flips with fear at the idea of being alone down here.

No one but Sanji is in the room right now. The candlelight is missing from the wall, and the only light is a barely-there sliver from the open door. Sanji can’t tear his eyes away from it, even as he tosses in his bed. He tugs his blanket tighter around his shoulders and tucks his knees to his chest.

Rest doesn’t find him, no matter how hard Sanji tries. Every time his eyelids close, flashes of sharp teeth and claws rip them back open. He shivers under the blanket at every creak of the ship, at every whistle of air, and the lack of bodies in the room only makes the cold leech further into his skin. Once he’s close to sleep, a draft breezing through the cabin drags up the memory of huddling into himself against the wall of his cell, shaking and scared, waiting for Reiju or his brothers or something worse.

Sanji’s eyes fly open. He can’t do this. He can’t stay down here.

Sitting up makes the blanket slip from around his shoulders, so Sanji maneuvers until he’s wearing it like a cape. His eyes track the distance from the edge of the bed to the sliver of light from the door. If he runs, if he really goes fast, he should be able to make it to the light without getting eaten. He hasn’t quite figured out what he’ll do after that.

Peering over the bed has his stomach turning unhappily. His heart is already beating fast, uncomfortably so, and the thought of stepping onto the ground, into danger, has it picking up speed. Sanji’s eyes squeeze shut, trying to picture his mother’s golden curls, and though he does conjure up the image, the strands of her hair are dull. It still spurs him up and out of bed, racing across the floor to the sliver of light peeking through the open doorway, trembling hands clenched around his blanket.

It’s just as cold in the hallway as it was inside the bunkroom, but the wash of light helps draw air back into Sanji’s lungs. Now that he’s out of the cabin and standing in the hallway, he has to decide where to go. Maybe the kitchen? He’s not too sure. All he knew in the cabin was that he wanted out.

“Kid, what are you doing up?”

Sanji shrieks, dropping his blanket to cover his face as he turns.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Sonny says, palms facing out. “It’s just me, kid. It’s just me. You alright?”

Breaths come faster than Sanji wants them to, and he grips at his chest to make them slow down. It’s just Sonny. Sonny wouldn’t hurt him. Nobody on the Orbit would really hurt him. For all they like to make fun of Sanji, he doesn’t think they would ever go that far.

Sonny inches closer, hands still out, reaching like he wants to touch Sanji. “Everything okay, little guy? Why are you out of bed?”

“‘m not little,” Sanji says. His chest hurts less, calming down from his fear at being startled. Now he’s just embarrassed.

“Sure you aren’t. That doesn’t answer my question, though. What are you doing up?”

Sanji’s mouth twists unhappily.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sonny asks. When there’s silence, he tries again, gentler. “Are you feeling okay?”

“It’s too dark in there.” He’s quiet, barely audible even to himself.

“Is it?”

“Mhm. And it’s cold.”

Sonny clicks his tongue. “Ah. That blanket’s not enough, huh?”

“It’s not that!” Sanji’s heart starts to beat harder again. “You’re all late! You stay up until the buttcrack of dawn, and you leave me in there all alone, and it’s cold and it’s dark and I can’t–” He cuts himself off before he says something he doesn’t want Sonny to know.

“Alright, kid, just breathe,” Sonny says. He’s kneeling now, hands warm and gentle on Sanji’s shoulders.

“I don’t want to be alone down there.” Even to his own ears, he sounds pathetic. He’s going to get in trouble if he keeps whining like this.

“Okay. That’s okay, bud.” Sonny’s voice is soft as he rubs Sanji’s arms, up and down in slow strokes - rhythmic, soothing motions that relax his tense posture and calm his frayed nerves.

“Just take a breath,” Sonny says. “You’re all good.”

A few more moments pass before Sanji wrangles control back over his own breathing. His heart still races in his chest, but it’s running out of steam, and Sonny’s warm hands stay firmly on his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Sanji mumbles.

Sonny’s nose wrinkles, like he’s walked out back towards the trash chute. “For what?”

“For getting upset. I can be better.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Sonny’s expression has shifted now, the look on his face going from confused to something Sanji can’t quite name. His eyebrows crease, just the slightest bit, and his lips curl into a tight line. One hand drops off Sanji’s shoulder, and he nearly darts out to grab Sonny’s wrist before he sees his blanket in Sonny’s hand.

Oh. He was just picking it up.

Fabric falls around Sanji’s shoulders again and immediately, his fingers are flying up to clutch the blanket tighter, grateful for something to fidget with. Sonny still hasn’t said anything. Sweat beads at the back of Sanji’s neck, and he opens his mouth to apologize further when Sonny cuts him off.

“Kid, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s Sanji’s turn to be confused, staring wide-eyed.

“You’re allowed to be scared, you know,” Sonny continues, a sad smirk on his face. “You’re just a kid. You’re young, and you’re learning the world. That’s not something you need to apologize for.”

As long as Sanji has been alive, there’s always been something to apologize for. Some inherent fault Sanji has that leads to another abject failure. Now that he’s been told he doesn’t have to, he’s not quite sure what else to say. It doesn’t make sense. He squirms in place, the blanket tight between small fists.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Sonny says, standing up from the floor. “Me and the boys will turn in early tonight, promise.”

Sanji’s only used to broken ones. “You swear?” he asks, blinking up at Sonny. He has to make sure.

“On the sea.” 

The past few months have been one shock after another, upending his life in a short period of time. There are still days on the Orbit that shake him, rattling everything Sanji thought he knew about the world and what was expected of him. Nights like these, with words in soft voices and warm hands on his shoulders that are so gentle they don’t seem real, are unfathomable. Sonny steering him back to the cabin, a flat palm between his shoulder blades - he never would have dreamed of it.

He hopes he’s not dreaming. He would hate to wake up and leave this behind.

Sonny enters the cabin first when they reach it, lighting the candle on the wall, and the knot lodged in Sanji’s chest starts to unfurl. He still scurries into his bed, tucking himself up into his bunk so nothing can reach him, and curls to face the door. Sonny looks up at him from where he’s fiddling with something by the candle. He snorts when he sees Sanji, his face peeking out of his blankets.

“You’re weird, kid,” he says, but he’s smiling. “There’s matches right here if the light goes out and you get scared, ‘kay?”

Sanji nods. He snuggles deeper into his blankets, but remembers he should be grateful, so he says, “Thank you.”

“No sweat, little man. Just go to bed. Busy day tomorrow!”

When Sonny leaves, the door stays open a crack, the familiar sliver of light peeking through from the hallway.

-

Sanji knows pain. He’s familiar enough with it to the point he waits for it to come back, never truly leaving him alone. Being beaten and broken down is expected, an understood sensation, and he’s learned to cope with the sharp crack of bone or the dizzy ache of a concussion after years of torment.

This pain, though, the agony of hunger - it’s unlike anything Sanji’s ever experienced.

His stomach is gnawing on itself, a merciless predator tearing into flesh as his body consumes its own fat. Its teeth are ripping him apart from the inside, leaving a gaping hole just below the jut of his ribs. Or maybe it’s shriveling up, matter folding in on itself, wrinkling and shrinking with nothing to fill it back up. His mind is too fuzzy to decide on a comparison. All he can tell right now is that it hurts. Bad.

Sanji lost count of how long he’s been stuck here. He knows he ran out of food a few days ago. He knows his lips are chapped, cracking and burning with the rest of his skin in the blistering sun. He knows it’s a struggle to lift his head.

God, he’s so, so hungry. He’s so hungry, but he’s out of food. He let the last bit of bread he had fall into the ocean like an idiot. He was stupid, and he’s going to die out here because he lost the only thing he had left to keep him alive, and he can’t pick his head up to look for ships, and that old man is going to die too because of how stupid he was-

That old pirate. He still has food.

The world tilts as Sanji stands, painstakingly slow. His arms and legs are like mush, thick and sludgy like oatmeal but light at the same time, like he’s not even there. It’s almost like trying to cut through water. He shuffles forward, stomach tearing and shrinking and crying out for something, anything to fill its yawning depths with. 

Sanji would cry too if he had any tears left. Right now, as he smacks his lips, his tongue is sandpaper on the roof of his mouth.

Metal glints, sunlight reflecting off the blade of a knife, and his fingers twitch, drawn to pick it up. The hilt is heavy in his weak hand. It almost slips out of his grasp.

He’s starving. He’s dying.

He has to get food.

Stumbling, Sanji makes his way across the rock to the old man’s side. He can barely control his legs, quivering like a fawn with even the effort of staying upright, but when a big, hulking profile comes into view, his muscles contract and spur him forward.

“You still have food,” Sanji says. With all the strength he has left in his body, he screams. “You still have some! Hand it over!”

He brings the knife down, and the canvas rips as the tip plunges into the fabric, and what spills out is red.

The blood is a surprise, gushing from the gash in the bag and pooling around Sanji’s feet so he’s standing in it. Everything is red - the rock, the blade of the knife, the fabric of the bag. Even Sanji’s hands are covered in it now. He narrows his eyes, straining through mental fog and exhaustion and near-death to look at the contents spilling out, and if he had anything left in his stomach it would have been expelled onto the ground in front of him because the bag was not a bag anymore.

Sanji looks down at his hands, shaking, clutching the knife with weak knuckles, and back up at the sack of flesh in front of him.

“What?” he asks, meek and muted. No one answers.

Thin, pink tubes spill out onto the bloody stone with a gross splat. The knife tips from his fingers, splashing in the pool of thick red below. Sanji flinches as it sprays against his legs. More tubes are falling, thick viscera tumbling out of the ripped flesh, and those must be intestines, because his fried brain vaguely recognizes them from his textbooks back in Germa. To his horror, he can pick out the vague shapes of other organs in the pile of mess. 

“What the hell,” he whispers. “What the hell.”

Sanji stumbles back, just once, because he slips and falls on his butt, soaking his torn pants with slick blood. A little bit of the spray catches him in the face, and greedily, without realizing it, his tongue darts out to lick his lips, to bring the taste of something into his mouth. As he struggles to get his bearings, sliding in the crimson pool on the ground, he turns his head to the side to call for the geezer, except he can’t do that anymore, because the old man is lying on his back facing the sky with an identical gash tearing open his middle. 

His skin is ashen. He looks dead. 

“Hey,” Sanji says weakly. “Hey! You shitty old man!”

His mouth gapes open, eyes unseeing and arms limp against the ground.

He died. Sanji did that. He must have.

Against all odds, bile rises in Sanji’s stomach, clawing up his throat because he killed someone, he killed the man who tried to save him, there must be something seriously wrong with him, how could he do something so awful-

-and Sanji shoots up in bed, a hand clapped over his mouth so the bile stays in his stomach where it’s supposed to.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain control over himself, but Zeff’s organs flash behind his eyelids again and Sanji damn near pukes once more. His eyes stay firmly open. There’s a metallic taste on his tongue. Zeff’s blood. Sanji gags, swallowing thick and harsh, and his dinner stays put.

It wasn’t real. He wouldn’t be on the Baratie if it was.

Sanji wraps his arms around himself, squeezing his middle in as close an approximation he can get to a hug. It’s a weak hug, because he’s so shaky and he feels so sick, but he digs his fingers into the flesh of his sides and tests closing his eyes once more.

Like tugging on a rope, pulling and pulling within his mind, his mother’s smile swims into view. It’s vague and fuzzy, the image dulling after years apart, but Sanji can see her straight teeth, the gentle crease of her eye. If he focuses hard enough, his poor excuse for an embrace shifts into hers. Mama’s arms take the place of his own desperate clutching, and breathing gets easier as he pictures her face, hears her voice humming sweetly to him. He’s not sure how long he stays curled up, cradling his own body and heaving, but after a while, when he doesn’t feel sick to his stomach, Sanji comes back to himself.

Unfurling is easier said than done. His fingers are stiff from digging into his abdomen, and when his tongue brushes the roof of his mouth, it twinges with pain. He must have bitten it trying to keep quiet. That’s probably where the taste of blood came from.

Sweat makes Sanji’s shirt cling to his skin, cold, wet fabric under his armpits and down his back. It’s gross, and Sanji cringes, flapping the collar to fan himself. It’s one of the most annoying parts about nightmares - he wakes up slimy. It’s been years since the rock and Sanji’s brain is still finding ways to torture him and make him produce entire buckets of sweat.

Still, he’s had enough nightmares in his life to know that they never really go away. At least, not for him.

Sanji’s grown out of his monster-fearing phase, so he doesn’t leap out of bed, but he still rushes to leave the room Zeff let him claim and get out into the warm candlelight of the hallway. Sleep isn’t coming back to him anytime soon. He might as well head down to the kitchen.

Plus, the old geezer might be there, too. He’d never say it out loud, could never ask for it with words, but Zeff’s presence on a bad night is the thing that soothes his heart back into his chest. Prying questions are never asked, and Sanji gives no answers in return. It comforts him all the same to come down to the kitchen and put his hands to work, to hone his craft and learn and feel safe.

Hell, even getting screamed at would be heaven after the image his mind conjured up of the old geezer. 

Before Sanji realizes it, he’s pushing the double doors of the kitchen open. “Old man?” he calls. When there’s silence, he moves in deeper and tries again. “You here, shitty geezer?”

“Eggplant?”

The voice is faint, but just hearing it is enough for the nausea that’s been swirling in Sanji’s stomach to fade. His feet patter across the kitchen tile, moving faster until he sees the braided mustache, the stained sleep clothes, the mess of papers and spreadsheets that means late-night inventory. That means life in the kitchen.

“The hell are you doing up, kid?” Zeff asks. “Though I told you to get your ass to sleep.”

Overwhelming relief washes over Sanji at the sound of the old man’s gravelly rasp. Heat gathers behind his eyes, prickling and wet, and he bites down on the sore spot on his tongue to keep any embarrassing noises in.

Zeff looks at him funny. “Somethin’ wrong? Why are you-”

Sanji surges forward to bury his face in Zeff’s stomach. Warm, his brain supplies. Alive.

Zeff is still here. Baratie is still here. Sanji didn’t kill the shitty old man out of hunger-induced delusion, and he didn’t die, and Sanji’s head rises and falls under Zeff’s breaths. He’s still alive.

Sanji sniffles, embarrassed and overwhelmed all over again. He fists his hands tight in Zeff’s shirt and ignores the way it starts to grow wet against his cheeks.

Cautious, like he doesn’t know if he’s doing the right thing, Zeff’s large hand comes up to cradle the back of Sanji’s head. He doesn’t hold Sanji in place, and he doesn’t yank him back, either, just spreads his fingers over his hair and, after a few seconds, rubs his thumb back and forth.

Warm, Sanji thinks. Warm means alive.

After a few moments of getting gross snot all over Zeff’s shirt, Sanji pulls away. He scrubs a hand across his eyes and risks a glance up at the old man, fearing whatever expression he’ll find on his face, but Zeff has carefully concealed however he’s feeling. He can never quite manage to hide the concern in the rumble of his voice, though.

“You alright now, little eggplant?” Zeff asks. The words come out softer, the way Sanji hears them on nights like this. He simply nods.

“Good,” Zeff continues. “You goin’ back to sleep?” 

Sanji shakes his head. He couldn’t right now if he tried.

Zeff smiles, then, and plants his hand back on Sanji’s head to ruffle his hair. Sanji’s mouth drops open, ready to shoot off an indignant remark, but Zeff beats him to the punch. “Means I can put you to work.”

Sanji’s retort dies on his tongue.

Inventory is menial, but no less important. Without proper stock, they can’t cook, and if they can’t cook, there’s nothing to serve. They split up the job sometimes to make it go by quicker - Sanji takes the low shelves of the pantry, rolling around on the chair Zeff lets him use for inventory and inventory only, and the old man sticks to the ones Sanji can’t reach. The only sounds in the room are the clinking of glass jars, the wheels of Sanji’s chair, and the scratching of pen on paper as the two of them take notes.

Once they’ve been working for a few hours, Zeff lumbers away from the shelves and towards the stove. A burner clicks on in the background, flame lighting with a quiet whoosh, but Sanji sticks to his job instead of turning to investigate.

There’s comfort in mindless tasks. Sanji can lose himself counting bags of rice and checking for mold on the tomatoes instead of drowning inside his own head. The warm kitchen light is a soft yellow in the late hours of the night, a balm that soothes his stress and fear and panic so that by the time he’s inspected the very last shelf, tension has bled out of his shoulders.

Yawning wide, Sanji brings his notepad back to Zeff, who’s holding out a mug of something for him to take. He wraps his hands around it, letting the warmth leech into his fingers, and inhales the floral-scented steam drifting from the top. He looks up at Zeff, who looks down at him expectantly, challenging him to identify the mixture. Sanji takes another whiff.

“Chamomile,” he says eventually, and, “Is that honey?” An experimental sip confirms the flavors. The tea is warm going down, the sweet flowery taste settling in his stomach. 

“Plus a splash of lemon juice,” Zeff says, and takes a sip from his own mug. “Not bad, kid.”

“I’ll get it on the first try next time! That was too easy. Give me something harder, I can do it.”

Zeff laughs, deep and thundering. “Sure, when you can keep your eyes open. You finish that and go get some shut-eye, eggplant.”

“But I’m already awake! I can still work!” Sanji knows he’s pleading. He just wants to be helpful.

“You’ve been up for hours already, and the damn sun ain’t even up.” Zeff swigs his tea again, peg leg kicking Sanji underneath the counter to chastise him. “The kitchen’ll be here when you’re ready.”

“Besides,” he continues, “I can’t have my sous chef passing out into our customer’s food, now, can I?”

“No,” Sanji grumbles. He buries his face in his mug to hide his flushed cheeks. The steam makes his eyelids heavy, and he has to blink in rapid succession to keep them open.

“That’s what I thought.” The mug is gently taken from Sanji’s hands, and he’s nudged again at the back of his knees. “Now get your scrawny ass to bed.”

“But prep-”

“Will be handled.”

“And breakfast-”

“Is still gonna get made. Shit, kid, you’re stubborn!”

“You’re worse, you old fart!” The jab is weakened when Sanji yawns. Zeff stares at him, thoroughly unimpressed. He knows he’s beat.

“Wake me up for morning service,” Sanji says, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

“Whatever you say, brat,” Zeff responds. “For the last goddamn time, get out of my kitchen and go to bed.”

Sanji does, body loose and relaxed after winding down. When he crawls under his blanket, his sleep is merciful and dreamless.

-

If anyone asks, Sanji just wants to see the stars. Nothing more, nothing less.

Ocean breeze blows soft against his face, rustling his bangs as he leans against the railing of his new home, the Going Merry. The cigarette between his fingers smolders in the night, a tiny little beacon on the pitch-dark sea, and the waves rock peacefully. If Sanji wasn’t so wired, the gentle swaying of the ship would be a lullaby.

He can’t sleep tonight, though. Figures.

It’s not like he doesn’t struggle with sleep anyway. He has for ages, from the fear of monsters when he was little to the night light he needed on the Orbit. Nightmares have been plaguing him for years, well before the rock was a trauma that upended his world, when the sound of his brothers’ voices and the boom of his father’s footsteps were enough to turn his blood icy in his veins. He’d tested out the dark of the boy’s cabin tonight, with the soft snoring of his crewmates and the stale air of their stink, but he’d tossed and turned in his hammock before getting frustrated and leaving.

How pathetic, Sanji thinks. Even after all these years, with all the shit he’s seen, he still can’t handle closing the fucking door.

Pulling smoke into his lungs soothes the restless, homesick ache in his chest. If Sanji shuts his eyes, he can pretend he’s on the deck of the Baratie after service, reveling in the slow calm after a hectic dinner rush. When the dining room closes for the night and the kitchen’s been cleaned, he and a few other chefs made it a habit to sit outside and decompress. Lighters got passed around, and even though the shitty old geezer had told him time and again to quit smoking, he’d come out on deck when he’d finished his work and sit with them. 

Tears threaten at the back of Sanji’s eyes, his throat burning, and he pinches their outer corners to keep them in. He made his choice. There’s no going back now, not in the middle of the ocean. Sanji knows her too intimately to forget that fact.

It’s as he’s standing there, reminiscing and fighting the lump in his throat, that Sanji forgets to keep his guard up.

“Can’t sleep?”

Sanji curses, jolting at the sound of his new captain’s voice. He swipes at his eyes, just to be safe, and turns around. “Captain, what the hell?”

“Sorry, Sanji,” Luffy giggles. He clambers up onto the railing next to Sanji. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me. I was just…thinking.”

“About what?”

Sanji exhales a laugh. “Nothing important.”

“Well, if you’re thinking that hard about it, it must be important!” Luffy’s head is cocked to the side, inquisitive but not prying.

Sanji barely knows Luffy. The boy literally crashed into his life, barreling headfirst through the ceiling of the Baratie before badgering him every waking minute to come join his crew. Hell, if Sanji hadn’t given in, Luffy probably would have dragged him with his strange stretchy arms onto the Merry kicking and screaming.

Why anyone would fight so hard for him at all is unfathomable.

Zeff saved his life all those years ago, giving up a literal piece of himself to make sure Sanji would live. The chefs on the Orbit took him in, no questions asked, and gave him a place to live. Luffy spent his time at the Baratie breaking dishes, and when he wasn’t doing that, persuading Sanji to be his cook. But even so, there’s a part that cowers inside him. Something small and scared and waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment everyone realizes just how weak he really is, how much of a burden he can be.

It’s nearly impossible to remember a time when Sanji wasn’t drowning under the weight of his own inferiority. Having it beaten into him left him with a permanent ache, like a broken bone healed wrong. People are always having to pick up his slack, to make up for his persistent weakness, and despite all the ways Sanji has tried to make himself strong he still knows that fundamentally, he will never measure up. 

The only person he was impossibly perfect to was his mother, and after twelve years of her absence, it’s a struggle to remember her face. It’s a childish thought to have, he knows, but it hurts all the same. Gold, silken locks have turned back into straw, the blue of her eyes dimming as the memory of her soft smile fades with time. Trying to hold onto it is like trying to catch grains of sand - slipping through the gaps in his fingers no matter how tightly he clenches his fist.

“Sanji?”

Sanji jolts again. Luffy has brushed up against him, his knee nudging Sanji’s shoulder, looking down at him with wide brown eyes. The ocean breeze tousles the hair falling across his forehead.

“Where did you go?” Luffy asks. His skin is warm where it presses against the fabric of his sleep shirt. 

The end of Sanji’s cigarette is nearly burnt out, forgotten when he retreated into his head, so he extinguishes it against Merry’s railing and shoves the butt in his pocket before searching for a new one. With a flick of his lighter, flame catches at the end, and familiar smoke swirls into his lungs.

“Like I said, Captain,” Sanji answers. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah, but you were quiet for a long time. I tried to talk to you but you didn’t answer, and I’m right here!”

Sanji takes another drag. “A lot happened today, so forgive me if I’m not on top of my game.”

“Are you missing home?”

Mama’s face flickers into view again. “You could say that.”

Luffy scoots closer on the railing, his arm now pressing against Sanji’s shoulder as he holds the railing for stability. “It’s okay to miss them, you know. I have people that I miss all the time.” He looks out at the dark ocean, at the moonlight reflecting off the water, and for the first time, Sanji sees something akin to sadness flicker into his eyes. It’s gone before he can comment on it.

“But I still have all the memories I made with them,” Luffy continues. He looks right at Sanji as he talks, chocolate eyes locking with Sanji’s. “And those are enough to keep me happy. Besides, if things didn’t change, I might not get to make new ones with you!”

Sanji won’t cry, he’s done enough of that today, but it’s a damn near thing.

“You really are something, Captain,” he says, but it comes out wobbly. Luffy just laughs, bright and clear.

“Come on,” Luffy says. He hops down from the railing, tugging on Sanji’s hand to pull him along. “Usopp’s already on watch. Let’s go to sleep.”

It’s a miracle Luffy doesn’t rocket them down to the cabin door, mercifully taking the stairs. He still takes them three at a time, though, and Sanji nearly tumbles head over ass down them as he’s dragged along. Before he knows it, they’re standing in front of the cabin door. Luffy goes to push it open.

“Wait,” Sanji whispers. “Let’s leave the door open tonight. You all stunk it up so bad, I can barely breathe in there.” It’s a lousy cover-up, but it’s also not a lie.

Luffy’s grin splits his face, eyes crinkling with recognition. “It’s not that bad!”

“You’re just nose-blind.”

As Luffy giggles, tugging Sanji through the doorway, his calloused hand clutching tight, the ache in Sanji’s chest loosens by a fraction.