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You Can Do Better Than Me – Deathcab for Cutie

Who do you think is most at fault?

Sanji closes his eyes. The cigarette in his hands finds its way between his lips in a worthless show of muscle memory. He sucks air lightly through the damp filter, drawing the bitter air deep into his lungs and savoring the blood rush the nicotine provides. He opens his eyes to find the ashtray conveniently located on the table next to him. Ever since the first of these little sessions, the one where he permanently placed a scorch mark on the end table, he always remembers to grab the ashtray before sitting down on the couch. A light tap of his fingers against the cigarette and the ash trickles down slowly to rest on the three butts below. Two more than usual, so far.

“Me, of course. It’s always me.”

Sanji thinks mainly with his heart. 

It was his heart that pushed him into excelling in the kitchen; it’s his heart that tells him how to cook the perfectly designed meal for any individual. It’s his heart that tells him how to act towards his friends – the thing that makes him provide for the hungry, the downtrodden; the thing that made him an older brother to Chopper, the thing responsible for all of his relationships.

But this time it’s his brain that fucked up. It was his brain that told him dating Zoro wasn’t a smart idea. It was his brain that told him he could never be loved in the first place.

He hated Zoro the moment he first met him. Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that they loathed each other with unrepentant rage and anger. Sanji couldn’t decide what was worse - the stupid green hair, or the idiotic, absurd muscle mass – it’s a wonder they didn’t kill each other when they first met. Zoro was always the one backing up Luffy’s crazy ideas, always the one getting lost, always claiming that he was the stronger one. Zoro didn’t care about what Sanji was good at. He didn’t care about the lengths that Sanji went to making sure that each meal was better than the last. He didn’t care about how much Sanji cared. And he was always, ALWAYS nagging – little things too: the way that Sanji talked, what he talked about, how he was dressed, even who he talked to, for fucks sake. But what bothered Sanji the most, what sent him shivering with fury kicking the furniture in his room around in a frenzied wrath, was that Zoro couldn’t even be bothered to say his name.

It was a joke in the beginning. Or at least, that’s how Sanji had treated it. They were introduced at a weird time – Luffy had made a mess of something or other and dragged Sanji along with him spouting tales of a new guy he’d forcefully become friends with, “of course you’ll like him, Sanji!” and something along the lines of, “he’s really funny and he gets lost a lot,” serving as their hopelessly inept introduction.

Luffy couldn’t have known that he had haplessly thrown together two people so in opposition that their very natures had revolted against the other once they’d gotten within eyesight. He couldn’t have known that his two best friends would have fought worse than cats and dogs, that they reacted against each other much the way lava hits the sea; with noise, steam, and so volatile a reaction that their meetings would always leave physical evidence of their hostility towards the other.

Sanji knew who Roronoa Zoro was. Everybody knew who Roronoa Zoro was. He was an asshole for no good reason, hopelessly loyal to his friends and family, had the same sad backstory as everyone else, and was horrendously incompetent at anything he couldn’t physically fight his way out of. Sanji didn’t need to get to know him. Sanji didn’t want to get to know him. It wasn’t his fault that anytime they were in the room together Zoro would bitch about something just to set Sanji off. It certainly wasn’t his fault that their friends policed every meeting to maintain some essence of order.

So what changed?

“I don’t know.” He closes his eyes and absentmindedly tucks a string of hair behind one ear. He thinks back to around the time things started going topsy-turvy for him. Although, there wasn’t really a point in his life when things were going as planned. Every day was a different battle back then; every step forward followed by two steps back.

“I just started noticing him more.” He taps his index and middle fingers a few times against his thigh. “He started annoying me in different ways."

He’s not sure exactly what changed, much less when it changed. One day Sanji looked around him and realized that he didn’t really mean any of the insults he so easily hurled at the other man. He realized that their tiffs and spats and verbal assaults no longer held any real soul to them. Or at least, Sanji didn’t put the same amount of acrid wit and effort into their arguments. It was more that they were fighting because that’s what everyone, including Zoro and Sanji, assumed they would do. In a way, it was what they were supposed to do; their expected role within the group.

He’d tried being nice at first. It had not gone well.

He’d taken the first step forward by not responding to a intolerably immature nickname flung across the room one night, only to take two steps back when his silence was taken for an attack in itself and he’d felt forced to defend his own pride by sticking his foot into the Marimo’s face. Sanji didn’t do well with attacks of that nature, and he was both amazed and disappointed that the asshole had baited him to that response. He didn’t regret his reaction, he was fully justified. And if anything, he had shown impeccable form when he’d knocked the algae-head on his ass. No, he was more upset that he’d failed in his first attempt at civility.

Slowly but surely Sanji was rewarded for his attempts to reach out a hand in… not friendship, not yet, but something resembling camaraderie. He discovered for no good reason, other than it was the truth, that he liked having Zoro there. Sure the bastard was as infuriating as a rock in his shoe, but he was unfailingly annoying; his abrasiveness and surly attitude a constant in Sanji’s life. Soon the insults, taunts, and mockery didn’t have the same bite behind them – they argued because it was fun, because it was a safe spark of attraction that allowed them both to hide their true feelings.

Sanji knew Zoro had a softer side. He’d seen it when the Marimo was with Chopper, or even when he’d bottle fed the half-drowned kitten that had showed up on his doorstep one morning. He’d just never fully realized it until, after they’d been dating for a few weeks, he noticed the idiot kept spare lighters on him in case Sanji lost his.

When did you start dating?

Sanji laughs softly. That was the question everyone else had asked at the time too. The whole…thing… came with much more surprise and reservation from their friends than he had expected. Surely the two of them weren’t the only ones who had noticed the other’s quiet affection?

“The first time?”

Sanji stares pointedly out the window to the side of where he’s sitting. In the distance he can see a cloud shaped distinctly like a boat. Zoro always liked watching the clouds.

“Or the fifth time?”

Their first date wasn’t actually anything special, and it wasn’t even really a date – although it definitely marked the start of something. Sanji could only abide eating out on the most special of occasions, and Zoro wasn’t one to plan anything extraordinary. They’d gone to see a movie and heckled the screen the entire time. Sanji remembers his hands sweating and heart racing when he’d first asked–

“Hey Marimo, want to catch a movie later?”

“Sure.” Zoro had paused briefly, probably trying to decide if Sanji had anything else to add. “Anyone else coming?”

“No.” Sanji had to light up a smoke just so his damn hands would stop shaking.

“Huh. Yeah, ok. Tonight?”

Things were actually a lot easier than Sanji had thought they would be. They still fought – ALL the time – but now they could actually enjoy each other’s company too. It was nice. It didn’t make much sense, but it worked. For a while.

The first time they slept together was surprisingly amazing. Not that Sanji thought he wouldn’t enjoy it, and not that he didn’t think Zoro would be anything less than amazing in bed. What he was surprised about was how amazingly well it worked. There wasn’t any arguing (well, no more than the usual), and as cliché and trite as it was, they fit well together. They each were strong enough to manage the other, and interested enough in making it good. For Sanji at least, he reveled in the ability to place his pleasure in another’s hands. For too long he’d held back, been reserved, been the instigator of every move and every touch. For once he could relax. And he gave as well as he got.

He could at least remember how it started; they’d been out drinking with Luffy and the others. Zoro had a liver with seemingly self-regenerative properties and it would take bathing in the stuff for him to actually get drunk. Sanji was embarrassingly bad at holding his liquor, though he’d claim the opposite until he reached his deathbed. Sanji’s townhome was within walking distance of the bar and it wouldn’t have been anything new for one of them to crash at the other’s place. What was new was the fleeting looks under hooded eyes, their eyes dilating in response to catching each other staring, the persistent (no, insistent) touches as they supported each other down winding sidewalks and up stairs with more steps than seemed necessary, the comfortable yet pregnant silence as Sanji unlocked his front door.

Sanji had been the first inside and had made his decision as he hung his keys and his coat on the hall tree. He’d carefully shucked his boots by the entryway and continued through his house, carefully ridding himself of clothing the further inside he ventured. His belt buckle was first – he remembers the solid clank it made when it hit the parquet floor, and the hushed intake of breath Zoro had tried to stifle behind him. His scarf was left strewn across the banister as he took the stairs slowly, his shirt left dropped on the fifth step from the top. It’s strange how the smallest things came back to him; these details weren’t the important part. What was important was how Zoro was following closely behind – Sanji could hear his breaths getting louder as he very obviously followed Sanji into the only bedroom in the apartment.

Was that the biggest part of it? The sex?

Today, Sanji can’t sit still. It wasn’t unusual for him to be overcome by sudden bursts of restless but equally fruitless energy. His deeply hidden anxieties and nerves often shone through the surface in bobbing knees and tapping fingers. Fiddling. That was what Zoro had always called it. 

Sanji knew better. He knew it for what it truly was. Restlessness. Impatience. Constant agitation.

“Don’t get me wrong, it did play a big part.” He paces behind the couch, each foot placed in line directly ahead of the other while lining up nicely with the natural grain of the wooden floors. He stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, wobbling as the movement puts him off balance for only a second. When he reaches the end of the couch he neatly spins on the ball of one foot and balances on it for a while.

“I think what hurt the most was how gentle he always was. With everything”

He stops pacing when he reaches the other end of the couch. He leans one hip against the edge, and tucks his left foot against his right ankle. He slowly withdraws his hands from his pockets; one hand gripped around a pack of Marlboro Reds, the other gripping a green Bic lighter in his fist. He lights up casually, as if he has all the time in the world; it’s the only time everything around him stops spinning so goddamn quickly. He exhales slowly and watches as the smoke from his fourth cigarette of the day trails slowly above him.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

They weren’t good for each other. Sanji knew that – knew it so intimately and unequivocally it was nearly painful for him to stay. They were like water and oil – never quite mixing well enough despite repeated attempts. They were too volatile together, too on edge, never settling. No, maybe they were more like baking soda and vinegar. Combative, combustive, confrontational – no end of negative descriptions to match ‘Zoro and Sanji.’ It didn’t change the fact that Sanji ached for the other man. He hated that feeling most, the one where his brain told him it wasn’t worth the pain, it wasn’t worth patching up whatever was between them when every conversation turned into an argument and every sideways glance turned only into frustrated glares.

What went wrong the first time?

“The first time? Same thing as what happened every other time, I fucked it up.”

But specifically, how?

“I let him believe what everyone else was saying.”

Zoro was unwaveringly loyal. Sanji tried to be. It’s stupid to blame it on nature – but there was always something distracting him, always a little voice telling him that it couldn’t be as good as it felt. Something was bound to go wrong, something always did. And Sanji was very, very good at burning bridges.

Half of their friends supported them. The other half was wary; they let it show in stares that lasted for too long, in whispered conversations behind doors conveniently left open, in advice couched in distrust. People had a lot to say about both Sanji and Zoro, it seemed there was never any shortage of opinions on the subject of them together. 

Sanji let the whispers get to him. And then he let the whispers get to Zoro.

It was stupid, of course. The things Sanji did usually were. Too many nights spent out too late. Too many stares and compliments from Sanji to people, women, who were not Zoro. Too many gifts backed by words that didn’t explain enough. Too much fighting that ended in no real answers.

“I need you to talk to me,” Zoro would say, never facing Sanji.

“There’s nothing to say. Don’t you trust me?”

“I would trust you if you’d give me a little something to hold on to here. There’s…”

Long, pregnant pauses. Too many nights spent back to back. Too many mornings of hurried conversations with no meaning. How many times can you say “good morning” and not have it mean anything at all?

Three weeks worth. 

That’s how long it took for things to fall apart after the first crack.

Sanji had no love for himself; how could he possibly be capable of loving someone else?

And when it was over, for the first time, how did you feel?                               

He chuckles underneath his breath, but with no real feeling. It’s reflex now to laugh everything off with a shrug and a halfhearted wink of the eye. If he keeps telling himself that everything’s fine, maybe one day he can actually start believing it.

“That’s a pretty typical question.” He avoids the question because he hates talking about how he feels. Hates talking about the stickiness that is inside him, the rancid despair that envelops him until he feels like he’s drowning. Hates thinking about words left unsaid that burn into his lungs until he swallows them whole and prays he doesn’t choke. Hates that in the end, he can’t bring himself to feel anything.

“It hurt.”

People always talked about looking for fire in a relationship, about the importance of maintaining a spark. There’s always a choice between two loves – the comfortable one with its promise of contentment and easy ebb of care; or the difficult, fiery love with its constant struggle to balance passion, love, and logic. The truth is that neither is a better choice. Both have their faults, and in the end both will leave you broken. 

Sanji’s heart broke along with the first time their relationship broke. Or maybe that’s not the best way to describe it – they never had anything whole between them to start with. They had love, and plenty of lust, but they both lacked any sort of foundation to build anything solid; to build an actual relationship. It was mutual (though the destruction was obviously one sided), and the hurtful pangs of attachment turned into a dull ache within Sanji’s past. He had thought he was happy. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but very little was actually perfect in Sanji’s fucked up grayscale world. There was so little keeping them attached: a toothbrush here and there, a few pieces of clothing, a box of movie tickets Sanji had stashed away at the back of his closet. It didn’t make sense that there were so few physical objects between them. Did the time they spent together not mean anything? How was it possible that they way Sanji felt wasn’t carved and scarred into his skin? For the first time in his life he was emotionally raw on the inside with no visible marks to show for his effort. Bruises at least had the consideration to serve as a physical reminder for pain.

The hardest part was getting the smell of Zoro’s shampoo out of the pillows. It was a stupid thing, but Sanji lost count of the number of times he’d buried his face in his pillows only for each one to wind up thrown to the opposite side of the room come morning. Smells linger; feelings hurt. No matter how many times Sanji washed and changed the sheets, no matter how often he hugged his pillows tightly and emptied an entire day’s worth of tears into them, everything still smelled vaguely of pine and lemons.

It hurt. The comforting silence and fresh breath of freedom gave no solace to a man haunted by his own insecurities.

It was a strange cycle of love and hate and lust and rejection. Never moving more than two steps forward – and always, always, followed by more steps back. As time passed they carefully avoided uncomfortable situations, Sanji was always aware of where Zoro was and what he was doing. The constant surveillance, the continuous worrying, and the ceaseless doubting of his decisions was exhausting.

Sanji couldn’t ever shake the feeling of being irreparably tied to the other man.

When did you decide to try again? What was the catalyst?

“See, now that’s the part that always seemed funny to me,” Sanji says with one hand draped dramatically over his forehead. Today he doesn’t have the energy to pace around; today he barely has the energy to lift one hand to carry a cigarette to his mouth, so he uncharacteristically left the side table empty of an ashtray. Maybe he should think about cutting back anyway.

“We never decided, and I don’t think we ever really fell apart like people are supposed to.”

They couldn’t ignore each other forever after all. Luffy still cooked up ridiculous adventures that required several people to rescue him from. The crew still hung out regularly; Sanji just smoked more than usual and Zoro always had a drink in hand. It was hard for Sanji, to still see Zoro’s face every day, to see a daily reminder of his personal failings. To remember that Zoro’s laugh wasn’t something special reserved just for him. To pretend that his heart didn’t threaten to jump out of his chest every time he brushed shoulders with the other man.

It was the little things that hurt the worst. Someone would inevitably bring up something that happened while they were dating. Sanji would smile brightly and allow his self to feel good about the memory, then move on and blatantly, painfully, ignore the burning and aching within his chest. The whole crew would go out, piled into the back of Franky’s van with more people than seats and Sanji would unavoidably end up next to the man he had been doing everything in his power to avoid. Leaving him to pretend that he was capable of keeping his knee from brushing up against Zoro’s, pretending that it was an accident when their hands brushed as they both reached to close the van door. Pretending that everything was fine.

He’d had it so good. Why was he destined to fuck everything up? Who could ever learn to love him?

It had started again with a fight. Between them, it always started with a fight. But this time it was purely physical, or at least, that’s how it was supposed to be.

He doesn’t remember how it started. He doesn’t remember how they both squared up against each other, how they simultaneously marched in fury to the backyard – maybe they were outside to begin with? Sanji thinks he instigated it, he certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, something about Sanji having perfected some new combo and how he’d been itching to try it out. How he was so sure that this time he could wipe that idiotic grin off the green-haired bastard’s face. Give Zoro something to really complain about. But maybe he’s imagining the whole thing with a pair of rose-colored glasses firmly affixed in hindsight.

What he does remember is how every kick and every block only served to make him feel alive, more alive than he’d felt in the entirety of the past month. And how every hit that landed was sure to cause some wonderful bruises (finally a physical badge built to match the internal wounds). He remembers the hard smack of his back against the damp ground, the feel of grinding the grass underneath his palms while attempting to free himself from whatever stupid judo-esque pin that Zoro had locked him in.

And then, suddenly, he felt like he was being held. And while rendered immobile by a man with too much muscle mass for his own good Sanji realized that his bed was far too empty, that he didn’t take up enough space on his own couch, and how unpleasant the echo of his footsteps in his silent townhouse was. As he fought to control his breathing he realized just how lonely and touch-starved he had been for the past few months. With Zoro spread out over his body, his left arm stretched uncomfortably over the top of his head (the asshole had just picked him up from the hips and thrown him down, knowing a typical leg sweep or kick wouldn’t unbalance the blonde), Sanji was amazed at how much his heart rate had slowed, and how little he fought the hold. 

“Are you okay?” Even then, his name never crossed the other man’s lips. That was a gift reserved only for the most exceptional occasions.

No.

Of course not.

Please don’t me ask that.

Those were all of the things that he could have said, probably should have said. Instead, he only shrugged out of the impromptu embrace and carefully dusted the grass off of his shirt. He didn’t dare trust his voice to shake, he had no faith that what was on his mind would come spewing forth: unstoppable repentance and meek begging for forgiveness. So he said nothing.

And if Zoro stood a little bit closer to him for the rest of the night he pretended not to notice, just like he’d been pretending all along.

“You’ve had too much to drink, get in my car I’ll drive you home.”

Again Sanji was the victim to bad timing, to his inability to refuse any drop of kindness from the man at his side.

He was drunk, not much of a surprise given his low tolerance and tumultuous emotional state. So he dutifully climbed into the passenger seat and sat mesmerized as he watched the lights blend together while the lack of space between them quickly overloaded his senses. He muddled everything over slowly in his mind – his thoughts both freed and stymied by his drunkenness. Finally, as Zoro pulled over and together they sat parked on the side of the street Sanji had worked up the courage and gained control over his mouth to say one thing. Just one thing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Tell me about a happy memory.

Sanji smirks around the lollipop in his mouth – cherry flavored, all natural of course. It turns out that smoking was mainly about the nicotine rush and, of all things, an oral fixation. He’s working on cutting back; the patch and the lollypop seemed to be helping the most, which means almost not at all.

“It’s really stupid.”

He doesn’t even need a few moments to think of his happy memory – it’s his favorite memory, and the only one that made him think that just maybe, he was worth loving.

His eyes opened suddenly, consciousness slammed into him throwing his body into full alertness though he doesn’t know the cause. It took him a few moments to place where he was. He was lying on his couch in his living room with a hand tucked underneath him. As he stretched it an uncomfortable tingling sensation shot through his arm causing him to wince in pain. Something uncomfortable pressed into his back meant that he had moved to the very edge of the couch in his sleep. Maybe that was what woke him up. A small, nearly imperceptible, snort from behind him reminded him exactly what had happened previously. He and Zoro had rented some obnoxious action movie involving car chases and death defying stunts that paired nicely with a six-pack and popcorn. It was an attempt at playing nice. They must have fallen asleep, eventually wrapped up cozily in each other’s arms. Sanji lay stilled, listening to the quiet breathing of the man next to him as he noted every single inch of his body that was in contact with Zoro.

It was simultaneously too much and not enough. He breathed in deeply and faintly caught the smell of beer mixed with the smell of Zoro’s deodorant. That’s right, they had returned to Sanji’s house after running into each other at the gym. Sanji had teased Zoro for his choice in deodorant every chance he got – it was some cheap drugstore sports brand that reeked of musk and cedar with a misplaced hint of orange. Sanji supposed that it worked, in an oddly endearing sort of way. The smell of Zoro’s sweat was certainly masked through the haze of his deodorant.

The house was silent; the only sounds were the soft sighs from Zoro’s light breathing behind him. The only movement came from the rise and fall of their chests lying flush together. Lying on the couch, Sanji was comfortable and warm. He was… Happy. The way that they had fallen asleep meant that he was the little spoon. He was happy to be held, and he slowly drifted back to sleep in the knowledge that he was safe for the moment from the usual intruding thoughts that plagued his nights.

In the morning Sanji woke first, used to mornings that started well before the sun rose. Although he was up only a hot shower made him feel awake, followed by a very large steaming cup of coffee and a cigarette smoked in the cool air while seated on the back stoop. Not long after Zoro joined him with a similar mug of coffee and they sat in amicable silence while Sanji lazily puffed on his first smoke of the day. He knew Zoro didn’t mind him smoking, he seemed to like the smell of his brand actually, and Sanji basked in their quiet and seemingly effortless companionship.

“You cooking breakfast?” Zoro asked, his voice and attitude gruff as always after waking.

“Maybe.”

“Need to know if I‘m gonna stay or leave, shit cook.”

Sanji remembers just how his words slurred with remaining sleepiness, his voice heavy in the morning after being quiet for so long.

“Sure. Why not?”

Stay with me.

They came back to each other so easily. Maybe too easily. Zoro’s forgiveness was unspoken – the past so easily forgotten. Zoro’s forgiveness was given whole heartedly – as if he could see exactly the exact reasons they broke apart the first time and realized that none of it had ever really mattered. Sanji’s sorrow wasn’t fixed, his guilt never quite remedied. Sanji carried the blame within him, folded down into a small ball and shoved towards the very dark recesses of his mind.

They were happy for a long time. Or well, longer than the first time. They’d already dated once before and it was more like they picked up where they left off. Sanji remembered that Zoro liked to meditate while he was cooking dinner so he would turn down the radio he normally had playing in the kitchen. Zoro remembered that Sanji was surprisingly picky about the way the house was organized and was always careful to close cabinets and drawers and put things back where he found them.

Together they both realized that The Problem Last Time, as they semi-affectionately referred to it (which meant with disdain and the air of one recalling a relative with a habit of serving stale cookies and giving useless and poorly thought out gifts), was communication. They both took very different approaches to solving it. Sanji took to prattling about his day, commenting on a multitude of both significant and insignificant things that happened to him and what inconveniences he’d faced. It didn’t matter that Zoro’s responses to Sanji’s chattering questions were short and pithy, what mattered is that Sanji was slowly able to open up and share his turbulent thought processes. Zoro’s issue was his natural taciturn personality. A man of very few words and bold actions, communication was not his forte. He took to quiet affirmations; short statements of support for the both of them, small assertions of love and care about everything and nothing. It made a difference to the both of them. Until it didn’t.

That small ball that Sanji thought he’d dealt with? The one that had festered while left unattended, leeching positivity almost unnoticed, nurtured by rare (but still reoccurring) thoughts of worthlessness and self-pity? Yeah. That one. Turns out you can’t compartmentalize guilt and shame.

It’s late in the afternoon, the air is stagnant and the heat is oppressive. Sanji is exhausted and his legs and feet quiver in fatigue. He’s overworked, and tired. Just, always tired. His hair is frizzy and unkempt, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke hangs over him more heavily than usual.

Tell me more about your relationship. What did you feel when he said, ”I love you”?

“Why do we always have to talk about Zoro?” He might as well be melting into the cushions underneath him. He’s not smoking, not right now. He finished the last pack he had on him right after work. Now his mind is ringing with the need of nicotine and his stomach is clenched uncomfortably tight as the acid levels within continue to rise.

It’s important to understand how you relate to others. Your time with Zoro was your most intense and longest lasting relationship – if you can identify what you were feeling throughout the whole time, it’s possible that you can better understand your importance in other relationships. It’s so you can work better with people.

“I work with people just fine. I work in the goddamn food service industry. I serve people.” He’s disgusted and irritated and he’d rather be anywhere other than here.

Sanji you very nearly killed a man.

Oh.

That’s right. That’s why he’s here.

“It doesn’t really matter. He was being an asshole but that doesn’t excuse my behavior.” The reasons and explanations roll off his tongue easily. His tone is unaffected and insincere but he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t really care about anything anymore.

There are deeper issues at work here and it’s important that we get to the bottom of them. We need to understand why you feel the way you do, what past traumas –

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about my childhood – I’ve hashed it out already before.”

You’ve made your comfort zones very clear. But what you haven’t come to terms with is the repercussions of the past abuse. Why do you insist on running away from your relationships? Why is your first instinct to lash out in anger? Why are you so reckless?

“Reckless? What does that have to do with anything?” Sanji’s voice comes out clear but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy. The fabric in his pants is chafing irritably all over his legs. His tie is too tight and he absently claws at the offending accessory hoping to somehow loosen the knot around his neck.

You’ve had 7 hospitalizations in 2 years, with 8 major broken bones and 3 concussions. You’ve been involved in 2 major car accidents, not to mention the massive amount of speeding tickets you’ve managed to accumulate. You work with open flames on a regular basis and compete in high profile contact sports. Your friends say your mood swings wildly...

“So what?” Sanji interrupts with a snarl. “So what? None of that is even remotely relevant!”

You’re reckless with your life.

Sanji’s head swims. Is it the weather? Or something that he ate earlier? No wait, that couldn’t be it, because he hadn’t eaten.

“I’m not… what does that even mean? Who are you to throw that at me?” His voice catches in his throat, scraping through, leaving his insides raw until he feels like it would be easier to rip his entire neck apart, if only to be rid of the turmoil wreaking havoc within.

You’re on the verge of suicidal. You’re not actively seeking death, but you’re not actively avoiding it either. You don’t think you’re worth saving. 

The words echo loudly in Sanji’s brain, ricocheting around until the sounds lose any semblance of once having been words. His brain is so noisy he can’t think; can’t pay attention to where he is or what he’s doing, can’t understand exactly what’s been said. He doesn’t remember storming out of the room, the door slamming loudly behind him. He doesn’t remember hearing the sound of shattering glass as he threw the ashtray hard against the wall. He barely remembers stumbling down two flights of stairs, though his knee aches painfully and later he’ll remember having crashed down on both knees, sobbing in the stairwell. 

He finds himself in his car, racing down the street, except he’s nowhere near where he should be and on the opposite side of town from home. He doesn’t think about a certain person he knows that gets lost too easily – he’s not quite got a taste for masochism. There’s a beeping coming from somewhere; 5 loud pings, then silence, then 5 pings again. Repeated over and over again. Time begins to pass in clicks of 5, what is that noise? Ah, right. Seatbelt. Suicidal.  

Sanji isn’t consciously aware of parking his car. He’s been driving and moving with automated motions, never fully aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t know how he got home in the first place. He remembers opening his door, but not unlocking it. Did he break the lock? How long has he been sitting on the floor? It’s not the first time he’s fallen to pieces in his entryway, but somehow this time feels different.

His face is wet, and when his tears reach his mouth he’s somehow surprised by the salty taste. His head aches, blood pounds through his skull with every breath he manages. He hiccups loudly, and has to remember to start breathing again. In. Out. In. Out. Sanji knows he ought to be counting his breaths, that starting a rhythm is the easiest way to calm down but he’s too far gone to think about numbers much less putting them in any kind of meaningful order.

His chest rises raggedly, his entire body wracked with sobs. Objectively, he can hear someone in the background yelling, screaming almost. Probably his neighbors fighting again. He wishes they would stop, it’s only proving to be a disturbance and set him more on edge. The person doesn’t stop. It takes him a while to realize he’s the one screaming.

After being curled up in a ball, for god knows how long, his legs start to go numb. They tingle first, then when he tries to move them pain shoots up each appendage. He thinks he deserves that. His breath still isn’t even. He crawls away from the door, hoping that he can find his bed in this state. 

You’re not worth saving.