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It stung. Both the cuts he inflicted onto his own left arm, and the words echoing in his head.
'What are you doing, littl' eggplant? You're more pale than a decade old corpse, get to bed.'
Why did this old pirate care if he got enough sleep?
Why did this old pirate sacrefice his own leg for him?
Why did this old pirate do anything at all for him?
His breath hitched as he cut a bit deeper and a trickle of red slowly replaced the white scratch.
'No, no no no.' Without thinking, he drobbed the knife, grabbing a shirt and patted at the spreading blood with its sleeve.
Stop, please. Stop.
It didn't stop. The drops of red kept appearing, and the shirt got a stain of red among its white color.
Why wouldn't it stop, why did he cut so deep, why did it burn so much, why-
'...Eggplant?'
The rough voice of Cheff Zeff behind his door snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. How didn't he hear the peg leg-
'What are you doing inside there? I heard clattering.'
Clattering, right. He dropped the knife. And now was holding one of his white shirts against a bleeding cut.
And was choking back on that thick, aching lump in his throat.
'....' He didn't trust his own voice like this.
Would he yell if he heard his cries? Call him weak? Punish him for ruining one of the good shirts?
He bit down, hard, on his tongue in hopes to not burst into sobbing.
'I'm coming in if you're not answering in the next 3 seconds.'
'I'm fine!'
His voice broke halfway, and he begged for dear life that Zeff didn't hear it.
'Just....A photo fell.'
Silence.
His heart thudded so heart against his ribs he swore it'd jump out.
'...You better be telling the truth or I'll have you scrubbing floors till you're 50.'
Sanji listened for the sound of the peg leg thudding away, and just then did he breathe out. Though it sounded more like like a sob, almost.
He hid the knife underneath his mattress, rolled up the shirt and hid it in one of the drawers, then looked at the red cut on his arm.
He rolled up his sleeve and climbed back in bed, pulling the blanket all the way over him in hope that it would muffle the sobs.
It burned to much. And why did that old geezer bother checking up on him?
Why did it sometimes seem like that man cared about a little good-for-nothing like him?
<>
Anytime that Zeff showed even a tiny hint of concern or care for him, Sanji would be spiraling again and grab that knife from underneath his bed.
One day, Zeff had baked a cake for his birthday. Well, he didn't know his birthday, and made it on the date that he and Sanji finished up Baratie.
So, Sanji, after having another yelling match with Zeff and eating the cake, ran to his room and closed to door behind him,
going with his arm underneath his mattress to grab the knife and get those stupid spiralling, overwhelming thoughts out of his head.
Why'd he make me a cake? For him. Why. He's useless, and worthless. Why give someone like that a cake?
Why spent a day baking a beautifull cake for someone unlovable.
He didn't feel it.
His breath instantly catched, and he started patting hastily.
Where is it, where is it. He always leaves it in that corner-
'Looking for something?'
Zeff's voice froze him in his place.
The old cheff leaned against the doorframe holding up the thick kitchen knife, full of small dried stains of blood. His blood.
'I just yelled at the dumbasses back in the kitchen for half the day to make you a cake, just for you to do what with this knife?'
Sanji swallowed and looked away, lump getting thick in his throat once again.
'What are you doing with this knife, Sanji?!'
The old geezer doesn't use his name so often.
He could feel his lips tremble as he kept swallowing around that thick lump in his throat.
He looked away, anywhere but at the expression of the old man standing infront of him with that knife he stole from his kitchen.
'Answer me, boy.'
Sanji held his left forearm with his right hand, biting down onto the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
Zeff noticed it. Ofcourse he did.
'Show me your arm.' His voice was firm. With something Sanji didn't dare give a name.
'Show me. Your arm.'
Sanji hesitated before closing his eyes and carefully pulling the sleeve up.
Silence.
Sanji kept his eyes shut tight.
He heard the sound of Zeff approach. And then the feel of an arm cradling his left forearm.
Cradling.
Like he was something fragile and important. Something precious.
'....I-'
He opened one eye half-way, glancing at the old geezer trying to talk.
His eyes seemed as if he wasn't here entirely. Like he was miles away in his head.
'...If you want to enter my kitchen again. Don't be bleeding yourself dry. You hear me, boy?'
His voice sounded.... Different. Only Sanji couldn't tell why. So he just nodded.
Zeff let go of his arm, rolled the sleeve back down, and mumbled, 'You don't have to harm yourself to stop feeling.... whatever it is that you're feeling, kid.'
Sanji looked up at the old geezer as he took the knife and turned to leave the room, staring at the small stains of dried blood on the steel.
'You can better throw it all into making your disgusting dishes better.'
'They are not disgusting.' Sanji snapped back.
Zeff huffed, 'Yes they are, little brat.'
Sanji swore he saw the old man's lips twitch upwards before he left.