Archive of Our Own

More Than What He Brought 

The Thousand Sunny sat on the corner lot where the old warehouse district gave way to the river, a sprawling brick apartment complex built from red brick, patched stucco, painted metal, and weathered wood. The original four-story warehouse still made up the heart of the place, but balconies stuck out at uneven heights, exterior staircases crossed the courtyard walls, and enclosed walkways bridged buildings that hadn’t originally touched. Some windows had painted shutters. Others were round portholes set deep into the brick. A bright yellow cupola sat on the roof, trimmed in white, with stylized rays spreading outward beneath it.

The courtyard at its center was even stranger. Strings of lights hung overhead. Raised garden beds overflowed with herbs, tomatoes, and flowers. Near the fountain stood an old figurehead carved into a stylized lion, its mane flaring around its face in a sunburst of worn gold paint. Beside it sat a smaller ram figurehead with curling horns and bright blue trim. Off to one side, a broad maple shaded a wooden swing. In the middle of the courtyard, a ship’s mast rose from the brick paving, braced with cables and fitted with an open crow’s nest no bigger than a barrel, a rope ladder dangling beneath it. At its peak flew a black pirate flag bearing a skull wearing a straw hat.

Sanji carried the first box in from the street, where his rental truck sat along the curb with its back door rolled open. The box was heavier than it looked, packed with pans wrapped in dish towels and knives secured in their sleeves, but he kept it balanced against his hip as he crossed the courtyard beneath the strings of lights. Three weeks earlier, he had seen Jinbe, the resident manager, put up the TO RENT sign while Sanji was passing on his walk after work to the parking garage. Jinbe had shown him the apartment that same morning, and by the end of the tour Sanji had signed the paperwork. It was close enough to work that he could walk there in under ten minutes, affordable enough that he wouldn’t have to keep sharing a place with strangers, and strange enough that the courtyard had stayed in his head for the rest of the day.

Sanji paused and shifted the box in his arms, taking in the crazy structure again. It almost looked as if someone had cut an old ship in half, if a ship could be made of brick. It made him wonder what kind of people lived here. Passersby who saw a sign, like him? Or a more eclectic bunch who chose here on purpose?

When he'd first left home, he'd used the cash he'd hidden from birthdays and holidays to buy the cheapest used car he could find. Then he'd slept in it at the truck stop between the semis, ate there, and used the pay showers while working. It took several paychecks before he had enough to look for a real place to live, and he had answered a roommate ad on Craigslist because it was what he could afford. Now he had his own apartment. He was making it on his own despite his father's claim that he'd be a failure.

Sanji’s apartment sat on the first floor beneath what appeared to be a gangplank leading up to the second level. It was a one-bedroom unit, compact but in good repair, with decent light, a small kitchen, and enough room for the secondhand furniture he had collected over the last two weeks. He went through the door he had propped open with a boot and set the box on the counter, then took a drink from the glass of iced tea waiting beside the sink. The apartment still smelled faintly of fresh paint and cardboard, with the sharper scent of furniture polish clinging to the table he had already dragged inside.

He went back out through the courtyard, crossed beneath the mast and its slow-moving flag, and returned to the truck for the mattress. It was wedged upright against the wall of the cargo space, wrapped in plastic, and awkward enough that Sanji knew he was going to hate every second of getting it through the courtyard by himself. He climbed into the back, got both hands under the edge, and started walking it toward the lift gate.

“Hey!” someone called from the sidewalk. “Are you moving in?”

Sanji looked out the open back door of the truck. A young man in an open red shirt stood near the curb, grinning up at him. Beside him was a broader man with green hair, a black shirt, three earrings, and the expression of someone who had been dragged along but hadn’t bothered resisting very hard.

Sanji shifted his grip on the mattress. “That’s usually what the truck means.”

The man in red brightened. “I’m Luffy. I’m in 301.” He pointed across the courtyard with one thumb. “Zoro’s 402.”

Zoro lifted a hand in something almost too brief to be called a wave. “You need help with that?”

Sanji glanced from the mattress to the long path across the courtyard, then back to them. Pride suggested he could manage it. Common sense, for once, got there first.

“Yeah,” Sanji said, giving the mattress another shove toward the edge. “Wouldn’t say no.”

Between the three of them, they got the mattress and bedframe down from the truck. Zoro took one end of the mattress while Sanji took the other, and Luffy gathered up the bedframe rails under both arms with more enthusiasm than organization. The plastic wrap squeaked under Sanji’s hands as they carried everything across the courtyard, past the raised garden beds and beneath the slow flutter of the flag overhead.

“You’re in Vivi’s old place,” Luffy said, walking backward ahead of them with the rails clanking against his hip. “She moved in with Nami. They’re in 203.”

“Left side of the second floor,” Zoro added.

Sanji glanced toward him over the folded edge of the mattress. “You give building tours, too?”

“No.”

“He gets lost less inside than outside,” Luffy said.

Zoro gave him a flat look. “I don’t get lost.”

They maneuvered the mattress through the turn in the bedroom doorway with more force than finesse. Sanji winced when it knocked the wall, but the paint held. Zoro shoved from the other side, Sanji pulled, and the mattress finally slid into the room, sagging down onto the floor.

Luffy dropped the bedframe rails onto the floor with a metallic clatter and flopped backward onto the still-wrapped mattress. “This is nice,” he announced.

“It’s not even set up,” Sanji said.

“Then it’ll just be nicer.”

Zoro ignored both of them. He crouched beside the rails and sorted through the hardware bags. “You buy this used?”

“Secondhand store.”

“Hm.”

Sanji couldn't tell if that was approval or criticism.

Luffy rolled onto his stomach and peered over the edge of the mattress. “What else is in the truck?”

“Dresser. Kitchen table. A few chairs.”

“Okay. Let’s go!” Luffy bounded upright and out of the room before Sanji could blink.

“I’ll get the dresser,” Zoro said, following him.

Sanji hadn’t expected the help to continue. “You don’t need to.”

“Goes faster,” Zoro said with a shrug.

The three of them cleared the rest of the rental truck in a handful of trips. Zoro took the dresser by himself, muscles shifting under his shirt as he hefted it down from the truck and carried it across the courtyard with irritating ease. Luffy picked up the small kitchen table and balanced it on his head, both hands holding the legs while he marched beneath the strings of lights. Sanji carried the two kitchen chairs on the first trip, then came back with the others for the only new piece of furniture left besides the mattress – a fat leather chair with its own ottoman. Zoro took one side, Sanji took the other, and Luffy grabbed the ottoman instead.

Luffy flopped into the chair almost immediately after they set it down. He put his sandaled feet on the ottoman with a sigh. “This is nice, too.”

Zoro turned back to the bedroom. “I’ll set up the bedframe.”

“You don’t have to–” Sanji began.

Zoro waved him off and kept walking.

Sanji watched his back until he turned into the bathroom, then frowned. A second later, Zoro re-emerged and disappeared into the bedroom across the hall.

Luffy jumped back to his feet and immediately began opening boxes stacked in the living room. "You got a lot of books," he said, pulling them out one by one and stacking them on a used children's bookshelf Sanji had scavenged from the curb. It was painted a hideous combination of puce and olive green, with stickers peeling from the sides and marker scribbles wandering across the shelves. At some point Sanji meant to strip and repaint it.

"I like to read," Sanji said, unsure whether he should let this continue or put a stop to it. He wasn't used to people helping. "I can unpack myself."

"But what fun is that?" Luffy said, already reaching for another box.

Sanji stood there another moment before giving up and retreating to the kitchen. Behind him came the sounds of books thumping onto shelves and the scrape of metal as Zoro assembled the bedframe in the other room. Sanji had left the only toolset he owned in the bedroom earlier, knowing he’d have to put it together.

He slit open a box of cookware and started filling the cabinets. “Have you lived here long?”

"Yeah," Luffy said. "Since it was the Merry."

“The Merry?”

"The old building. It was way smaller." Luffy shoved three cookbooks onto the shelf upside down. "At first it was me, Zoro, Nami, and Usopp. Then Vivi, Chopper, and Robin moved in. Then Franky bought it and the place next door and knocked holes in everything."

“He’s who to thank for its… unique appearance?”

“Yep! Isn’t it great?” Luffy grinned. "Anyway, after Franky, he renamed it the Thousand Sunny. Then Brook moved in. Then Traffy. Kin'emon and Momo lived here for a while, but they moved out. Kaya took their apartment. Then Jinbe became manager." He gestured at Sanji with a book. "And now you're here."

"Sounds like you know everyone."

"Yeah!" Luffy said. "It's great. We're a crew here. We even have our own flag."

"I saw."

"Usopp designed it, but it was my idea." Luffy puffed up proudly. "We're the Straw Hats. And now you're a Straw Hat, too."

Sanji's lips twitched faintly. "Straw Hat, huh?"

"Yep!"

Sanji liked Luffy’s enthusiasm, and he liked the easy way Luffy included him. Sanji had never really gotten to know his last roommates. He’d rented a room, paid his share, washed his dishes, and kept his things in his own space. It had been a financial arrangement, not a friendship. Before that, he’d lived with his hateful family until he’d managed to get out at eighteen. As long as he didn’t drag the Vinsmoke name through the mud, his father had been glad to be rid of him. The feeling was mutual.

A final metallic click came from the bedroom, followed by Zoro’s footsteps in the hall.

“Bed’s done,” Zoro said. “Mattress is on it. Nightstand’s beside it, and the lamp’s plugged in.”

Sanji paused in surprise. “You plugged in the lamp?”

Zoro shrugged. “It was there.”

Luffy shoved the last book onto the puce-and-olive shelf, stepped back, and nodded proudly at the uneven rows. “Living room’s done!”

It nearly was. There hadn’t been much to unpack there, just books, a few framed prints, a chipped bowl for keys, and a blanket Luffy had folded over the back of the leather chair. The place still looked half-empty, but less abandoned than it had an hour ago.

“Thanks,” Sanji said, and meant it.

“No problem!” Luffy said. “Don’t forget, I’m in 301 and Zoro’s in 402. Don’t knock if he’s sleeping.”

“Don’t knock if he’s awake either,” Zoro said dryly.

Luffy laughed and started for the door.

Sanji looked at the boxes in the kitchen, the empty counter, and the glass of iced tea sweating beside the sink. They had worked through most of lunch. Luffy had emptied the living room boxes and Zoro had set up his bedframe without being asked, then handled the dresser, the mattress, the chair, and the rest of it.

“You two hungry?” Sanji asked.

Luffy stopped so fast Zoro nearly walked into him. “Yes,” Luffy said.

Zoro glanced at the door, then back at Sanji. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I didn’t ask if you were worried. I asked if you were hungry.”

Luffy turned around fully. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Zoro said.

“Yeah, but now he asked.”

Sanji huffed faintly and turned back into the kitchen. “I don’t have everything unpacked yet. Don’t expect anything fancy.”

He opened the small cooler he’d brought in earlier and took stock. Eggs. Cooked rice packed into a container from breakfast. A few cucumbers. Pickled plums. Green onions. A packet of miso soup mix he’d bought because moving day required something fast and hot if he lost patience with the world. Not ideal, but enough.

Luffy appeared at the edge of the kitchen, eyes bright. “What are you making?”

“Tamagoyaki.”

Luffy leaned farther in. “What’s that?”

“Rolled egg.” Sanji washed his hands and set a pan on the stove. “Fast, simple, and better than sandwiches.”

“I like sandwiches.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Zoro leaned one shoulder against the wall between the kitchen and living room, watching without making himself part of it. Sanji ignored the way that attention sat between his shoulder blades and cracked eggs into a bowl, then added a little sugar, soy sauce, and a pinch of salt. He beat them smooth with a fork while oil warmed in the pan.

The kitchen was small, but the burners worked, the counter had enough room for a cutting board, and his knives were already unpacked. That was enough. For a long time, enough had been all he’d had. He’d taught himself after leaving home at eighteen, first because he was hungry, then because cooking was one of the few things he remembered doing for his mom and those happy memories settled in every time he made something. Egg into pan. Rice pressed into rough triangles between his palms. Knife through cucumber. Green onion scattered over miso in three mugs because the bowls were still packed somewhere he hadn’t reached.

Luffy watched every step with open fascination.

Sanji tipped the finished tamagoyaki onto the cutting board and sliced it neatly. “Sit down before you knock something over.”

They ate at the small kitchen table, even though it hadn’t been wiped down yet and one chair wobbled if anyone leaned too far left. Luffy took one bite and went utterly still. Then he slammed both hands on the table. “This is amazing!”

Zoro took a slice, bit into it, and chewed. His expression didn’t change much, but his shoulders settled, and he reached for another piece before he’d finished the first. Sanji was pleased that they both liked it.

Luffy already had rice stuck to the corner of his mouth. “Can you make meat?”

“Yes.”

“That’s perfect!” Luffy said. “You have to come to game night.”

Zoro looked at him. “He just moved in.”

“So? Game night is how people know each other.”

Sanji took a sip from his mug of miso and pretended the offer didn’t land somewhere softer than expected. “When is game night?”

“This Friday because I’m off. My place. Everybody comes.”

“Not everybody,” Zoro said.

“You come.”

“Sometimes.”

“But you come.”

Zoro didn’t argue with that. He took another bite of tamagoyaki instead.

Luffy leaned across the table, serious now, or as close to serious as his face seemed able to get. “You should come. You’re a Straw Hat now.”

Sanji looked at the plates, the unpacked boxes, the filled bookshelf in the living room, and the two men eating at his secondhand table as if this were already normal. “Maybe,” he said.

Luffy beamed as if maybe meant yes.

Zoro stood after finishing and carried his dishes to the sink. He rinsed them without asking, set them upside down beside the faucet, then glanced back at Sanji. “Thanks for the food.”

The words were straightforward, but his gaze lingered for a second after them.

Sanji lifted an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

Zoro seemed to realize he was still looking. The tips of his ears turned faintly red, and he turned away toward the door. “See you around.”

Luffy shoved the last bite into his mouth, scrambled up with his own dishes, and dropped them carefully in the sink. “Friday!” he called, already hurrying after Zoro. “Game night! Bring food!”

The door closed behind them.

Sanji stood in the small kitchen with three used plates, one wobbly table, and the smell of egg and miso still hanging in the air. Outside, voices crossed the courtyard, bright under the late morning sun.

He looked toward the living room, where Luffy had filled the ugly little bookshelf with Sanji’s books, then down the hall toward the bedroom Zoro had put together without being asked.

He hadn’t expected to make friends with his neighbors before he’d even finished unpacking. But maybe he had anyway.

Sanji didn’t know what game night consisted of, but he figured finger food was the best way to go. Something not too messy. Plenty of it, because he had a feeling there would be a lot of people. He made two trays with what he could afford without making himself regret it later: little cucumber sandwiches on soft white bread with herbed cream cheese, deviled eggs dusted with paprika, and a pile of crispy rice balls filled with tuna mayo and scallions. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would need a knife and fork. Enough to share.

He enjoyed cooking. He’d done it sometimes as a child to cheer up his mom, but once she’d died, he wasn’t permitted to do it anymore. He hadn’t really been permitted to begin with, but he’d sneaked down to the kitchen in the middle of the night to do it anyway. Then he’d have to sneak to his mom’s wing to visit her. She always said his food was delicious and she wanted him to keep cooking for her. He did when he could as long as he could, until she passed away when he was seven. That had been the end of his cooking. Judge, his father, thought cooking was servant work and no Vinsmoke should do anything so demeaning. Sanji stopped for self-preservation and didn’t pick up a chef’s knife again until after high school when he was living on his own.

He was twenty-four now, worked as a front desk clerk at a budget hotel, and earned just enough that he could afford the apartment at the Thousand Sunny now that he didn’t have to pay for parking and gas to drive to work every day. Everything he did or owned was budget friendly, as there was no way he’d ever go back to his father for money. He had secondhand suits, secondhand or scavenged furniture, thrift store cookware. His cell phone was his only access to the internet. He picked up dollar books from garage sales and used the library as much as possible. His only vice was that he spent more on food than he should.

He excused it this time, telling himself a guest should show up with something to share, and Luffy had said to bring food with his invitation. Sanji wanted to make a good impression, and food was the best way to do it.

He’d dressed in casual dark brown chinos paired with a light blue button down. His blond hair fell over one eye to help hide one of his distinctive Vinsmoke eyebrows. He’d checked that his goatee was neatly trimmed before putting on a touch of cologne and calling it good.

He picked up his covered plates of food and headed out. Luffy was up the gangplank, across a bridge, and up a set of stairs to the third floor of the complex. The doors all faced the courtyard. Luffy’s was partially open, and laughter and conversation spilled out around the smell of cheap beer, popcorn, and something vaguely burned.

Sanji knocked, pushing the door open more with his knuckles. “Hello?”

“Sanji! You’re here!” Luffy bounded off the couch, over several arms and legs, and came to the door. “Everyone, this is Sanji. He brought the food!”

He went to take it from Sanji, but another set of hands seemed to bloom out of the doorway and took the plates instead. A beautiful brunette with a serene half-smile greeted him. “Best not to give the food to Luffy, if you wish anyone else to enjoy it. I’m Robin.”

“Sanji,” Sanji said. “It’s wonderful to meet such a lovely woman as you.”

Robin’s dark eyes seemed to twinkle. “History teaches us that the lovelier the woman, the deadlier her secrets,” she said, before turning and walking off with the plates.

“Hey! That’s my food,” Luffy complained, following her toward the apartment kitchen.

Sanji stepped tentatively into the apartment.

Luffy’s place was larger than Sanji’s, a two-bedroom apartment with the living room and kitchen open to each other. A couch sat crookedly in front of the TV, a round table had been pulled into one corner for cards, and the kitchen ran along the back wall behind a counter. Shoes were piled near the door. Takeout menus and unopened mail cluttered the TV stand. The whole place looked lived-in, loud, and already halfway through the night. 

The main room was packed with people, different ages and dress codes: a skeletal old man in tie-dye, a redhead in a crop top, a blue-haired woman on the couch, a big man with a blue pompadour, a guy in all black, and a very short person in a red top hat with a medical cross on it. Zoro sat in a corner with a beer beside a guy in overalls, and Jinbe stood in the kitchen mixing a punch bowl with enough vodka to make Sanji cautious. 

Zoro spotted Sanji across the room and stared for a moment before looking away and taking a drink. Sanji wasn’t sure what to make of it, but Luffy distracted him before he could think long about it.

"Sanji!" Luffy called from the open kitchen. "Robin won't let me eat!"

Sanji walked over to see what was going on. The punch bowl took up one end of the counter, and Robin had opened his trays and set them out with plates and napkins at the other. The cucumber sandwiches were lined up in neat triangles, the deviled eggs bright with paprika, the rice balls stacked high on the second tray. They looked better than the bags of chips, pretzels, and cooling pizza boxes spread around the room.

"Ah, Sanji, hello," Jinbe said. "Would you care for a cup?"

Sanji saw the amount of vodka poured into it and figured he'd better not. He didn't want to make a fool of himself upon meeting everyone. "Maybe later."

Luffy sat on a stool in front of the counter. "She's being mean."

"Give everyone else a chance to try Sanji's food first, Luffy," she said in a way that conveyed an oft-repeated line. Robin filled her own plate.

"Aw, but I'm hungry."

Sanji smiled. "Give everyone a chance first."

"Okay." Luffy sighed dramatically.

People came over while Sanji worked, introducing themselves or letting Luffy introduce them. They all lived in the Sunny, and they all loved what he had brought. It felt good to hear. He’d worked hard preparing it, and cooking was something he enjoyed. 

"This is great," Nami said. "Here, try some."

Vivi took the bite she offered. "Oh, yes, this is wonderful."

"These are super, bro," Franky told him. "Aren't they, babe?"

"Most certainly," Robin agreed.

"These old bones certainly appreciate this," Brook said. "Normally it's just chips and pizza delivery."

Usopp raved, "Kaya would love this. Too bad she had to work tonight. Maybe I can take some for her."

Law eyed the cucumber sandwiches and made a face. "I don't like bread." But he took from the rice balls and smiled as he ate.

"Sanji, this is great!" Chopper exclaimed. "Do you make desserts, too?"

"I do," Sanji said. "I'm not a professional baker or anything, but I can make cookies and other treats."

"Will you make those for next time?" Chopper asked.

"Of course." Sanji was pleased to be asked.

The kid, who was actually twenty, cheered.

Zoro came over, grabbed a plate, and mumbled, "Hey," before retreating to his corner again. Nothing about the food, but Sanji saw him clean his plate fast.

Luffy was let loose on the food after everyone had some. Sanji had never seen anyone devour that quickly. "You could breathe between bites," Sanji said.

Jinbe chuckled. "That is like casting a line to catch the moon."

By then, only a handful of rice balls and sandwiches remained. 

"Sorry," Sanji said. "I didn't realize there'd be this many people."

"It's fine," Robin said. "There was plenty."

Luffy looked mournfully at the nearly empty tray.

"I can make more if everyone wants," Sanji said. “If Luffy doesn’t mind my using his kitchen.”

Luffy got excited immediately. “Yeah! Go for it!” 

"Only if you're sure," Jinbe said.

"I don't mind."

Sanji rolled up his sleeves and took stock of Luffy’s kitchen. It was a mess, but not an empty one. He found enough for quick quesadillas, made them hot and easy to share, and set the plate out. It emptied almost immediately. 

Game night, it turned out, was Friday Night Football on the TV, poker at the round table, and Connect Four on the floor. Luffy dragged everyone over whenever he was off – he was a firefighter – because they were a crew and he insisted. The TV volume rose and fell with the room. Nami shouted over cards, Brook laughed too loudly at his own jokes, and Robin drifted between the counter and the couch while Luffy tried twice to steal food before Sanji finished plating it. 

Sanji stayed in the kitchen, whipping up food for the seemingly bottomless pit. He chatted with whomever came to refill their plate, set some aside for Kaya, and dared to try a little punch once he was sure it wouldn’t knock him over, as he did have to work. He didn’t mind the kitchen. It gave him somewhere to put his hands and something to do while he learned names. He could listen from there without having to push his way into the couch crowd or the poker table. By the time the evening wound down, Sanji had collected his empty trays and rinsed the serving tongs. Jinbe took the plates from him before he could reach for them.

“You are not required to clean up,” Jinbe said.

Sanji let him have the dishes, oddly touched by it. He felt like his first meeting with the neighbors had been a success.

He’d been afraid he’d have to leave early, as he had to work at eleven, but the football game ended at 9:30 and the poker game was done by ten. People began filing out, calling goodnight down the hallway and through the open door. Sanji took his own leave in plenty of time to drop his trays back at his apartment, change into a suit, and collect his lunch from the fridge. Being so close to the hotel was a boon. He might get a bike, cutting his travel time in half.

He used his code at the staff entrance, punched in at the time clock, and relieved the second shift clerk at the desk. The lobby was dim and over-air-conditioned, with a vending machine humming near the elevators and a stack of tourist brochures no one ever seemed to touch. He stowed his lunch beneath the counter, took his current book from his messenger bag, and settled in for the quiet hours.

His mind drifted to the get-together and a smile curved his lips. He looked forward to doing it again.

Luffy’s next game night was three weeks later. He banged on Sanji’s door at one in the afternoon the day before – waking Sanji from sleep – and invited him personally. “Bring food again!” 

Sanji blinked at him, still half asleep, hair loose over his face and one hand braced on the door. For Luffy, one in the afternoon was a normal hour. For Sanji, who worked third shift, it was the middle of the night. “Right. Food.”

“Good!” Luffy said. “See you tomorrow!”

He bounded away toward the stairs before Sanji could say anything else.

Sanji closed the door, stood there for a moment while his brain caught up, then went back to bed. 

Having his own apartment still felt faintly unreal. There were no roommates eating the last of his cereal or leaving hair in the sink. No one complained when he slept through the middle of the day because he’d worked all night. The Thousand Sunny was easier to live in than he had expected. Chopper lived above him and was quiet. Jinbe lived beside the office and was quiet. Franky’s workshop took up part of the lower level, but he worked elsewhere most days.

Sanji saw people in passing when he went to the store or library. They exchanged greetings and quick conversations, enough for him to collect surface facts. Kaya was a medical student and dating Usopp. Brook had apparently been a famous musician once. Law was a surgeon, which explained the exhaustion but not the tattoos. Robin and Franky were married. Nami worked in tech, and Vivi was a diplomatic intern.

Everyone had busy lives. Luffy was the one who brought them together regularly.

After his extra two hours of sleep, he started baking cookies, remembering his promise to Chopper. He made chocolate chip, then oatmeal cranberry because he had oats and dried cranberries already, then a batch of peanut butter cookies. The apartment warmed with the scents of butter and sugar.

The next day, he brought tins of cookies, more finger foods, and a covered tray of wings. It was more food than he should have made, considering his grocery budget, but he had planned carefully around sales and pantry staples. Finger food made people happy. Besides, he had been asked. 

Luffy’s door was open again when Sanji arrived. The TV was already on, though the game hadn’t started. The round table had been claimed for poker, with Nami shuffling cards while Jinbe counted chips and Usopp accused her of cheating before anyone had started. Chopper was on the floor with Kaya, showing her the Connect Four board. Brook sat in the chair nearest the TV with his long legs crossed, humming along to a commercial jingle. Law stood by the counter with a cup of coffee, looking as if he regretted every decision that had led him into a room with this many people.

“Sanji!” Luffy launched himself from the couch. “You brought wings!”

“And cookies,” Chopper said, popping up so fast his hat nearly fell off. “Did you bring cookies?”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Sanji lifted one of the tins.

Chopper lit up. “He remembered!”

That pleased Sanji more than it should have. “Of course I remembered.”

Zoro sat at the poker table with a beer near his elbow, one arm resting over the back of his chair. He looked over when Sanji came in. Again, his gaze held a little too long before he looked away and took a drink. 

Franky appeared at his side and rescued the top tray before Luffy could get there. “You made wings? Legend, bro.”

Sanji followed him inside. Someone had shoved the mail and a stack of takeout menus aside to make room for the trays. There were paper plates stacked by the punch bowl, napkins, a few bags of chips, and an alarming amount of soda. He set down his trays and opened the tins for Chopper, who made a soft noise of joy at the sight of the cookies.

Kaya took one of the cucumber sandwiches and tried it. Her expression softened. “Oh, this is lovely.”

Sanji felt that little warm flicker again, the one he tried not to make too much of. “I’m glad.”

Brook drifted over next, drawn by the smell of wings or possibly the cookies. “May I sample one of these beautiful creations?”

“Help yourself.”

Brook took an oatmeal cranberry cookie and bit into it with great ceremony. “Ah, marvelous. A cookie with dignity. These old bones have missed such refinement.”

“You say that like you have young bones somewhere,” Law said from his spot by the counter, coffee in hand.

Brook laughed. “Yohohoho! Sadly, no. All my bones are vintage.”

Law gave him a look. “That wasn’t an invitation to continue.”

Sanji hid a smile and began setting out the wings. Luffy immediately reached for one, and Sanji slapped his hand away with the serving tongs. “Everyone gets some first.” 

Luffy clutched his hand. “You’re as mean as Robin.”

“Then you’re used to it.”

Nami laughed from the poker table. “I like him.”

“Everyone likes him,” Luffy said, as if that had already been decided. “He brings food.”

Sanji busied himself with the plates before anyone could see what that did to him. He served the wings, then the sandwiches, then the cookies. Chopper took one chocolate chip cookie and held it in both hands reverently for a second before eating, which made the whole batch worth the cost of butter.

The enthusiasm with which his food was greeted warmed him. Luffy groaned around a mouthful of chicken. Franky declared the wings “super dangerous.” Nami moved one of the plates closer to her side of the counter. Vivi politely took a little of everything and complimented all of it. Brook asked whether Sanji had considered culinary immortality. Law avoided the sandwiches again but ate three wings and two peanut butter cookies without admitting he liked any of it. 

Zoro came over after the first rush had passed. He took a plate, chose two wings, a few carrots, and a handful of chips from one of the opened bags. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sanji said. “Careful with all that enthusiasm. Someone might think you’re happy to see me.”

Zoro’s expression barely changed, but his thumb worried at the edge of his paper plate. He glanced toward the round table. “You play poker?”

“A little.”

“There’s a seat by me.” Zoro flicked his gaze back to Sanji and added quickly, “Usopp’s easy money.”

“I heard that!” Usopp called.

“You were supposed to,” Zoro said.

Sanji looked toward the table. There was an empty chair beside Zoro now, because Franky had gotten up to argue with the TV. For a second, Sanji imagined sitting there. Cards in hand. Beer nearby. Letting the food sit while he lost a few dollars and learned how Nami cheated without getting caught.

Then Luffy reached for the wings again, and Sanji saw how little was left on the tray. The cookies were going nearly as fast. He had brought plenty, or thought he had, but Luffy ate for three people and everyone else had seconds. He could make more with whatever Luffy had in his kitchen.

“Maybe later,” he said.

Zoro’s eyes flicked over his face. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Sanji nodded toward the trays. “Food’s disappearing.”

“There’s chips.”

“Not enough.”

Zoro looked past him, toward the kitchen. His jaw shifted once. “You don’t have to feed everybody.”

Sanji smiled. “Worried about me?”

Zoro didn’t smile back. “Maybe I just want your money at poker.”

“Maybe later,” Sanji said again.

Zoro held his gaze for another second, then nodded and took his plate back to the table. Sanji watched him go for half a second, then opened Luffy’s fridge and started taking stock. He could make tortilla rolls cut small enough for fingers, meatballs turned respectable with garlic and tomato, leftover rice stretched with egg and the last green onion. 

Behind him, poker chips clicked. The game roared from the TV. Connect Four became some sort of tournament between Chopper, Kaya, and Law, with Brook providing dramatic commentary. Robin sat near the counter with a plate balanced on one knee, reading something on her phone between conversations. Luffy drifted too close every few minutes, and Sanji moved him back with a look, the tongs, or a sharp, “Wait.” 

Jinbe stopped by long enough to refill his drink. "Need anything?" 

"I'm good," Sanji said.

"All right."

People chatted with him as they came by for food. Kaya mentioned an anatomy practical. Brook told him half a story about touring in the seventies before drifting away with another plate. Luffy praised everything with his mouth full. Franky asked what Sanji had done to the meatballs, then called the answer “super” before Sanji had finished explaining. 

By the time the evening wound down, the cookies were nearly gone, the wings were bones, the meatballs had vanished, and Luffy was scraping the fried rice bowl with a spoon. Sanji washed the dishes he’d used, then everyone’s plates and cups, because he was already at the sink and leaving a mess felt wrong. The apartment smelled of sauce, sugar, beer, and warm bodies. The TV had gone quiet. Someone laughed, and someone else couldn’t find their shoes. 

“Leave it,” Zoro said from behind him.

Sanji glanced over his shoulder. “Leave dirty dishes? I’m not a savage.”

“Not your mess.”

“I used half of it.” Sanji turned back to the sink before Zoro could answer.

Zoro didn’t move right away. Sanji could feel him there, silent and watching, before he finally walked off. 

Before he left, Luffy caught him near the door with his phone out. “Sanji! Give me your number.”

Sanji blinked. “Why?”

“So you know when game night is. And other stuff.” Luffy wiggled the phone at him. 

Sanji gave Luffy his number. A moment later, his phone buzzed.

Luffy: sanji is here fr

Luffy: it's luffy btw

Nami: it's nami

Vivi: and vivi hiiii

Usopp: TELL HIM THIS IS USOPP

Chopper: omg sanji hiii 😭

Chopper: it’s chopper

Chopper: tysm for the cookies

Chopper: literal 10/10

Brook: It is I, the Soul King Brook. A pleasure to have you among us, Sanji-san. Yohohoho.

Kaya: ty for the food too

Kaya: it was actually so good 

Kaya: oh this is kaya lol

Franky: FRANKY HERE. SUUUUPER COOK. 

Robin: Welcome to the group chat. This is Robin.

Law: Law 

Jinbe: Jinbe. Though I believe you already have my number.

Another number appeared a few seconds later.

Zoro: Zoro

Sanji looked at that one longer than the others, then saved it into his contacts.

He went off to work that night with a new list of names in his phone and the group chat still buzzing in his pocket. He dropped his tins at his apartment, changed into one of his secondhand suits, collected his lunch from the fridge, and walked the short distance to the hotel under the streetlights.

The staff entrance lock beeped when he used his code. He punched in at the time clock, relieved the second shift clerk at the desk, and tucked his lunch beneath the counter. The lobby was quiet, the air conditioning cold, the vending machine humming by the elevators. Sanji took his current book from his messenger bag and set it open on the counter, but he didn’t start reading right away.

His phone buzzed again.

Luffy: next time more wings fr

Nami: next time bring more cash so i can clean u losers out

Law: next time im destroying everyone at connect four

Chopper: u lost six times 💀

Brook: A noble defeat remains noble, young Chopper.

Law: no it doesn’t

Law: im winning next time

Sanji smiled down at the screen. He saved the numbers one by one, matching names to messages and faces. Nami. Vivi. Usopp. Chopper. Brook. Kaya. Franky. Robin. Law. Jinbe. Luffy. Zoro. 

He'd spent most of the evening in Luffy's kitchen. He hadn't played poker. He'd barely watched the game. But his name was in their group chat now. They'd asked for his number. They'd remembered him. Maybe that was how friendships started.

When the phone finally went quiet, he tucked it into his pocket and opened his book to the page he had marked before leaving for game night. The automatic doors slid open, letting in a tired couple with rolling suitcases and a sleeping child between them.

Sanji straightened, smoothed his suit jacket, and smiled. “Good evening. Checking in?”

Sanji’s phone chimed at three on a Monday afternoon two weeks later. He’d just gotten up and was out of the shower when it went off, towel still around his waist and hair dripping onto his shoulder.

Zoro: u wanna watch the game tngt?

Zoro: at mine

Sanji stared at the message for a beat. Zoro had never texted him directly before, except to identify himself in the group chat. His number sat in Sanji’s contacts, unused until now.

Sanji: football?

Zoro: yeah

Zoro: starts @7

Zoro: 402

Sanji thought about it. He didn’t have any plans other than watching YouTube videos until he got bored, maybe reading, maybe pretending he was going to fold the laundry currently sitting in a basket by the chair. He’d never been into football. The Vinsmokes were lacrosse and polo snobs. But football was what had been on TV during game nights, and maybe Sanji could learn.

Sanji: what should i bring?

Zoro: beer

Sanji snorted, then confirmed he’d be there and went to see what he could make to take with him.

By the time he went up the various bridges and stairs to the fourth and top level of the complex, he carried homemade pizza cut into squares, a small charcuterie tray, and fried stuffed mushrooms packed carefully in a paper-lined container so they wouldn’t steam themselves limp. He also had a six-pack hooked through two fingers. He dressed down for him – dark blue jeans and a violet button down he left loose at the collar.

Zoro’s door opened after Sanji knocked. He stood there in black jeans and a tucked polo shirt in pale khaki, looking more put together than Sanji expected. His eyes dropped to the travel containers stacked in Sanji’s hands, then back to his face. For a second, his expression stayed blank. “I just said beer.”

Sanji scoffed. “I’m not going to show up empty-handed.”

Zoro took the containers from Sanji and stepped back to let him in. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t.” Sanji lifted the six-pack still in his hand. “I also brought beer.”

Zoro carried the food over to a low coffee table in the living area. He had one of the smallest apartments at the top of the Thousand Sunny, an open studio tucked beneath the roofline. It suited him more than Sanji expected. A king-sized bed sat on a low platform in one corner, made without much effort but without any real mess. A nightstand and dresser stood beside it. A narrow kitchen took up another wall, with a coffee maker, a drying rack, and a mug by the sink. Between the kitchen and the couch was a square table covered in books, loose papers, and a laptop. A wide-screen TV took up nearly one wall, already set to the sports channel. One doorway led to the bathroom. Another led to a small closet. There were no decorations, aside from three swords mounted on the wall.

Sanji set the beer on the coffee table and began unloading the travel containers. Zoro already had an open beer out, along with open bags of chips and dip. He left one of Sanji’s beers on the table and transferred the others to the fridge, then came back with paper plates and a roll of paper towels.

“Anyone else coming?” Sanji asked.

Zoro blinked once, as if the question had caught him off guard. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked toward the TV as if the pregame show had suddenly become fascinating. “No. Thought you’d just want to hang out.”

Sanji was surprised, but he didn’t mind. “I might have made too much food, then.”

Zoro huffed softly. “You didn’t have to bring it.”

“I, like most people, have manners.” Sanji moved the empty travel containers to the kitchen counter. “Except for the mushrooms, everything can be refrigerated for a few days.”

Zoro nodded and shifted on his feet. “Need anything else?”

“Just tutoring on football.” Sanji took a seat on one end of the well-worn couch. “I know nothing about the game.”

“Really?” Zoro sounded shocked. He picked up his beer from the coffee table and sat at the other end. “Nothing?”

“I know there’s a ball involved.”

“That’s a bad start.”

“And a lot of people running into each other trying to get the sacred egg.”

Zoro gave him a look. “It’s a football, not a sacred egg.”

“So far, during the little I’ve seen at the last two game nights, it doesn’t involve much kicking.”

“Sometimes it does.”

Sanji picked up his beer with a smirk. “I’m learning already.”

Zoro’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, before he turned up the volume on the TV. It was set low enough that they could still talk over it. Monday Night Football was in pregame, the announcers breaking down the matchup with graphics Sanji only half understood. Zoro gave him a rundown on who was playing, who was favored, which quarterback was better under pressure, and why the offensive line mattered more than people gave them credit for.

Sanji listened, partly because he wanted to understand and partly because Zoro was easy to watch when he was talking about something he cared about. He became more animated without ever getting loud. His shoulders settled. His hands moved when he explained routes and blocking, fingers marking invisible paths over the space between them. He was still blunt, still sparse, but there was a quiet enthusiasm there, tucked beneath the dry delivery.

They dug into the food – mushrooms first – and drank beer. Sanji didn’t have to work again until Thursday, so he had more than one.

When the game started, Zoro pointed at the screen. “Okay. See that? Kickoff.”

“So there is kicking.”

“Told you there sometimes was.”

“Sometimes meaning once?”

Zoro leaned back into the couch. “Just watch.”

Sanji watched. A man caught the ball and ran directly into a pile of other men. Everyone jumped on top of one another. The crowd roared. The announcers sounded very serious about it.

Zoro glanced at him. “What?”

“Why did he run right into everyone?”

“It was a return.”

“A return to what? The hospital?”

Zoro snorted into his beer.

Sanji smiled, pleased with himself, and reached for a mushroom. “So now what?”

“Offense gets the ball. They have four downs to go ten yards.”

“Downs.”

“Attempts.”

“Why not call them attempts?”

“Because they’re downs.”

Sanji glanced at the TV again, where they replayed the ten-men pileup. “‘Ashes, ashes, they all fall down’?”

Zoro’s mouth twitched again. “You always this annoying when you’re learning?”

“Only when it’s deserved.” Sanji motioned at the screen with his beer. “This looks like a bunch of grown men throwing themselves at each other in an outdoor mosh pit, just with head protection.”

“You done?”

“Not even close.”

Zoro looked at him then, properly looked, and something in his expression held for a second too long. His gaze flicked over Sanji’s face, down to his open collar, then away to the TV. Sanji took a drink of beer to cover the fact that he’d noticed.

On screen, the quarterback called the play. Zoro leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Watch the receiver on the left.”

“What’s a receiver?” Sanji tried to find who Zoro was talking about. They all looked identical on the screen.

“The one who catches the ball.”

The ball snapped. Players moved. Someone ran downfield, cut across, caught the pass, and was immediately tackled.

“Players spend more time on the ground than moving in this game,” Sanji said.

“If the defense is good, yeah,” Zoro said.

“And if the defense sucks?”

“Then we hope it’s on the other team.”

The game settled into a rhythm after that. Zoro explained first downs, punts, flags, sacks, and field goals. Sanji complained about the terms, asked questions, and guessed wrong on purpose only half the time. Zoro corrected him without sounding irritated. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it, though he hid that mostly behind his beer and the TV.

A yellow flag flew after one play.

“What’s happening now?” Sanji asked.

“Holding,” Zoro said.

“Romantic.”

“Not that kind of holding.”

“Pity.”

Color crept into Zoro's ears. He took another drink without looking away from the TV. 

Sanji turned his face toward the TV and took another drink, letting the commentary fill the space between them. The referee made the call, and the offense moved backward.

“So they’re punished by losing yards,” Sanji said.

“Yeah.”

“And then they try again.”

“Yeah.”

“Football is just men making bad choices and being granted more chances.”

Zoro looked amused. “You want another beer?”

“Is that your way of saying my commentary requires alcohol?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes.”

Zoro stood and went to the fridge. Sanji watched him cross the small apartment, noting the way his shirt pulled across his back before he made himself look at the TV instead.

Zoro returned with two beers and handed one over. Their fingers brushed around the cold bottle.

“Thanks,” Sanji said.

Zoro sat again, a little closer this time. Enough that Sanji noticed.

On screen, the quarterback dropped back and threw deep. The receiver caught it near the sideline, and Zoro sat up sharply. “Good catch.”

Sanji watched the replay, mostly catching the way the man’s toes dragged in bounds before he fell out. “That counts?”

“Both feet in.”

“Ah. Feet finally matter.”

Zoro gave him a flat look.

Sanji smiled into his beer. “I’m becoming an expert.”

“You’re becoming something.” Zoro huffed softly, but he was smiling this time.

The game went on, and Sanji stayed on the couch. The pizza cooled on the coffee table. The mushrooms disappeared one by one. Zoro explained the next penalty with the same blunt patience he had used for every other rule, and Sanji drank his beer, argued with half the terminology, and pretended he wasn’t watching for the corner of Zoro’s mouth to curve when he got a joke.

“So,” Sanji said, “is there a reason why everyone wears really tight pants?”

Zoro stared at the TV. “Compression.”

“For what?”

“Muscles.”

Sanji looked over at him. “I can see they have muscles. Some clearly have not been skipping lunges.”

Zoro took a drink of beer, and Sanji had the feeling he was doing it to hide a smile. “They need to move easily and not get grabbed.”

“In pants painted on by a committee of tailors with no shame?”

Zoro laughed, short and surprised, as if Sanji had caught it out of him before he could stop it. Sanji looked at the TV quickly, but the sound stayed with him longer than the play did.

After that, the game moved faster. Or maybe Sanji understood more of it. He could follow the downs now, at least, and knew when a team needed ten yards, when the quarterback was in trouble, and when Zoro muttering “idiot” meant someone had made an avoidable mistake. He still thought half the terminology had been invented by men trapped in a locker room with no supervision, but the rules were beginning to make sense.

The half-eaten pizza went cold. The mushrooms vanished. Zoro ate most of the charcuterie without looking as if he knew what charcuterie was, and Sanji decided not to explain it because Zoro was already enjoying himself. The second half had more scoring, more flags, and one play that made Zoro sit forward so sharply his knee bumped Sanji’s. He muttered an apology without looking away from the screen.

By the time the game ended, Sanji knew the home team had won, the other quarterback had thrown two interceptions, and Zoro thought the clock management was stupid. The announcers moved into postgame talk, replaying the final touchdown while the crowd on TV roared around a game already finished.

Zoro leaned back into the couch and took the last drink of his beer. “So?”

Sanji looked over. “So what?”

“What do you think?”

“Of football?”

“Yeah.”

“Some wear the pants very well.”

Zoro huffed, short and low, and this time he couldn’t hide that he was amused. “You watched three hours of football and came out with pants.”

“I also learned about downs, sacks, flags, and the tragic misuse of feet in a game called football.” Sanji took a final drink from his beer. “The pants were a bonus.”

Zoro shook his head, but he was still smiling faintly. “So you’ll watch again?”

Sanji considered pretending to think about it. The game itself had been violent, overcomplicated, and named by lunatics, but Zoro had explained it with blunt patience, laughed at least twice, and looked embarrassed every time Sanji caught him looking. “I might. It was more fun than I expected.”

Zoro seemed pleased by the answer. Then he started cleaning up. Sanji got up to help.

By the time they were done, the leftovers divided, and Sanji’s trays packed away again, the postgame show had given way to another sports program Sanji didn’t know. Zoro turned the volume down until it was barely more than background noise. The apartment felt quieter without the game filling it.

Sanji picked up his stacked trays. “Thanks for the lesson.”

Zoro leaned one hip against the edge of the kitchen counter. “There’s another game I want to watch next Sunday afternoon, if you’re interested.”

“What time?”

“Three.”

Sanji nodded. “I can do that.”

Zoro opened the door for him since his hands were full. The hallway outside was dimmer than when he’d arrived, the courtyard below lit by the strings of lights and the glow from apartment windows.

Sanji stepped out, then turned back. “Well, goodnight.”

Zoro looked at him for a second before nodding. “‘Night.”

The door closed quietly behind him. Sanji headed down the stairs with his trays, leaving Zoro’s apartment behind and the sports channel still low through the door.

Sanji texted Zoro on Saturday. 

Sanji: still on for tmrw?

Zoro: yeah @ 3

Sanji: should i bring food again?

Zoro: just beer

Sanji brought jalapeño poppers and wings. 

At the door, Zoro gave him a look. “I have chips and dip.”

“Now you also have poppers and wings.” Sanji held up the six-pack. “I didn’t forget the beer.”

Zoro took the containers from him with a faint huff. “At least let me pay for some of this.”

“You’re paying me in football knowledge,” Sanji told him, following him inside. “And I’ll also drink one of your beers.”

The afternoon was fun. Sanji learned more about the game and that Zoro was into sports in general, not just football. Baseball, basketball, boxing, soccer if nothing else was on. Football had the most of his attention, though. He knew players, statistics, injuries, coaches, bad calls from years ago, and what sort of defense a team should run when Sanji could barely remember which side had the ball. 

He looked good, too, Sanji noticed despite himself, in another polo shirt tucked into dark jeans. When Sanji caught a glimpse of him leaving the complex, Zoro was usually in shorts or jeans and T-shirts, the same kind of clothes he’d worn the first time they’d met. The polos were probably nothing. Maybe Zoro dressed nicer when he watched games at home. Sanji had no idea. He only knew the pale green one fit across Zoro’s shoulders in a way that made Sanji miss half of what the announcer said during the second quarter. 

After that, a few days passed quietly. Sanji worked his shifts, slept through the late mornings, went to the library, and picked up groceries with one eye on what was on sale. He saw Chopper by the mailboxes, nodded to Jinbe in the courtyard, and passed Nami and Vivi on the stairs one evening when they were leaving together.

The group chat started up Thursday afternoon, while Sanji was making coffee.

Luffy: game night this friday

Franky: I’m in!

Nami: vivi and i will be there

Vivi: ill be late but yes hiii

Chopper: i can come after lab

Brook: These old bones shall be there. Yohohoho.

Usopp: working until 7 but ill pull up after

Kaya: same lol

Law: working

Sanji: i can come

Luffy: sanji bring meat fr

Franky: Those wings again would be SUPER!

Chopper: or dessert 🍰

Sanji: ill see what i can do

Zoro: im in

Jinbe: I shall be there.

Robin: I have a conference on ritual disembowelment, posthumous treason trials, and the decorative use of enemy remains, so I’ll be late.

Sanji stared at Robin’s message for a moment, then saved it in his head as a question he might never ask.

He told himself he would keep things simple this time. Wings, maybe. Something easy to carry. Maybe cookies if he had enough butter left. It was just game night, and he already knew how Luffy’s kitchen worked.

By Friday evening, Sanji had two covered trays balanced in his arms and a container of sauce tucked carefully into the top one. Sanji thought he might get to put his new knowledge to use. Instead, the second he entered, Luffy bounced up from the couch and grabbed him by both shoulders.

“Sanji! Make those meatball things again!”

Sanji blinked. “Hello to you, too.”

“Hi!” Luffy said. “Meatballs?”

“I brought food already.”

“But the meatball things were good.”

Sanji sighed, because Luffy looked at him as if Sanji held the fate of the entire evening in his hands. “Fine. If you have meatballs.”

“I bought some!” Luffy announced proudly, and dragged him toward the kitchen.

Sanji didn’t get to watch much of the game after that. He heard it in pieces from the kitchen – Zoro’s occasional muttered insult from the poker table, Franky yelling at the TV, Brook asking whether the referee needed glasses. He caught enough to know when there was a touchdown and not enough to know which team scored it. Mostly, he cooked: what he had brought, the meatballs Luffy wanted, and whatever else he could make from Luffy’s kitchen before anyone mentioned there wasn’t enough. 

People came and went from the counter, thanking him, praising him, asking what was in the sauce. Sanji liked it. He did. He liked that Chopper took a plate with both hands and told him the cookies last time had been perfect. He liked that Vivi smiled when Sanji gave her a milder portion before Usopp could attack the hot sauce. He liked that Franky called him a super genius for adding garlic to frozen meatballs, which was absurd but flattering. 

Near the end of the evening, Nami cornered him in the kitchen. Her pockets were full of other people’s money, and she had the satisfied look of a woman who had taken it fairly enough that no one could complain. "Sanji-kun, delicious food as always."

Sanji straightened at once, setting the sponge aside. “Thank you, Nami-swan. Your compliments make my heart sing.”

“They should. I don’t give them out for free.”

“I would never expect such a thing from a woman of your standards.”

Nami smiled, clearly amused, and glanced toward the living room, where Vivi was trying and failing to defeat Chopper at Connect Four. “Vivi and I are having people over next Wednesday night at six. Are you free that night?” 

Sanji immediately felt warmed by the invitation, a smile broadening his face. He hadn’t had much interaction with Nami outside of game nights and courtyard greetings. She was friendly when she wanted to be, but busy, usually passing through with her laptop bag on one shoulder and Vivi at her side. Being asked over properly, to their apartment, not just Luffy’s noisy game night, felt different. More personal. "I certainly am."

“Great.” Nami grinned in return. “Come by around four. That’s when I get home from work. Vivi won’t be there until after five.”

“Four,” Sanji repeated.

“Hopefully, that’s enough time for everything.”

"Sounds good." Sanji nodded, already thinking of it as time to get acquainted before the rest of the guests arrived. 

“Perfect. Thanks.” Nami pushed away from the counter. “See you then.”

She left the kitchen to go sit beside Vivi at the Connect Four game that Chopper was winning.

Sanji went back to cleaning up, still wearing a grin, looking forward to Wednesday.

Sanji knocked on Nami and Vivi’s door ten minutes after four on Wednesday. He’d put on one of his better suit coats and his favorite tie, and he had purchased a bottle of wine so as not to show up as a guest empty-handed. He’d seen Nami cross the courtyard from the car park earlier and given her time to settle before he’d gone upstairs to apartment 203.

Nami opened the door and looked relieved to see him. “You remembered.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t forget such a lovely invitation from an even lovelier lady,” Sanji said with a light flirt.

“Great.” Nami grabbed his arm and dragged him in. “I figured four would give you enough time before everyone got here. I got chicken, pasta, vegetables, bread, and dessert stuff. I hope that’s enough to work with.”

“It sounds like a good meal,” Sanji said.

He still had the wine in his hand as she pulled him past the living room and into the kitchen. Nami and Vivi’s apartment had a slightly different layout than Luffy’s. It was still a two-bedroom, but the kitchen was separate from the living area, with a full wall between them instead of a counter. Just outside that wall, Nami had set up a dining table with mismatched chairs, folded napkins, and a stack of plates waiting at one end. A vase of grocery-store flowers sat in the middle, still in its plastic sleeve.

The kitchen itself was narrow but neat, with white cabinets, a small window over the sink, and a strip of counter between the stove and refrigerator. Packages covered most of that counter. Boneless chicken thighs. Two boxes of penne. Crushed tomatoes. Heavy cream. Parmesan. Garlic, onions, lemons, a bunch of parsley, asparagus, salad greens, a baguette, strawberries, and a store-bought pound cake still in its plastic container.

Nami dropped his arm. “I need to shower and get ready before Vivi gets home. Pots are in the bottom cabinets. You can just look for the rest.”

She flashed him a smile, then left the kitchen in a whirl of red hair.

Sanji stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where she’d been. From the living room came the sound of Nami opening a closet, then footsteps down the hall. A door closed.

He looked at the food waiting on the counter.

Oh.

His eyes dropped to the bottle of wine in his hand, then to his better suit coat and favorite tie. He’d misunderstood. He had thought Nami had invited him to dinner. Not invited him to make dinner.

“My mistake,” he said to the empty kitchen.

It was quiet enough that he heard the refrigerator hum.

For a second, the embarrassment sat hot under his collar. He had dressed nicely. Bought wine. Thought about which tie looked best without trying too hard. He’d let himself imagine sitting beside Nami and Vivi at the table, being introduced properly to whoever else came, maybe learning more about them outside the noise of Luffy’s game nights.

Instead, there was raw chicken on the counter and two hours before guests arrived.

But it was okay. Nami liked his food enough to ask him. Trusted him enough to leave him alone in her kitchen. She had bought good ingredients, too, not just frozen meatballs and stale crackers. She wanted him to make something nice for the dinner party.

Sanji set the bottle of wine on the side counter. He removed his suit coat and his tie, tucked the tie into one pocket of the coat, draped the coat carefully over the wine, and rolled up his sleeves.

“All right,” he said, looking over the ingredients again.

Chicken, pasta, vegetables, bread, dessert. Two hours, maybe a little more if the guests were late. He could make that work.

He found the pots in the bottom cabinet, a cutting board by the sink, and knives in the drawer closest to the stove. They were dull enough to offend him, but he had worked with worse. He washed his hands, set the chicken on a plate, and began lining up what needed to happen first.

Zoro: game on friday @ 7

Sanji: is all u watch football?

Zoro: during football season

Sanji: ur required to tell me one thing u watch that isnt a sport

Zoro: Bargain Basement Ghost Hunters

Sanji: thats

Sanji: nvm what should i bring

Zoro: just beer

Sanji: u say that every time

Zoro: i mean it every time

Zoro: see u friday @ 7?

Sanji: yeah ill be there

Sanji chalked up the Nami dinner as a misunderstanding. He held no hard feelings and put it out of his mind. At Luffy’s next game night, he smiled and accepted the compliments as Nami and Vivi bragged about the meal he had cooked for them.

“The chicken was perfect,” Vivi told Robin.

“And the dessert,” Nami said, leaning against the counter with a plate in one hand. “I don’t even know what he did to that pound cake, but it looked expensive.”

Sanji ducked his head with a pleased smile. “It was nothing, Nami-swan.”

“It was not nothing,” Vivi said. “People are still asking me where we ordered from.”

Nami looked pleased. Vivi sounded grateful. People were still asking where they had ordered from.

Sanji smiled, accepted the compliments, and turned back to the pan in Luffy’s kitchen. Luffy had asked for more food the second Sanji stepped through the door, even though Sanji had already brought two trays. There were chips, popcorn, and pretzels on the counter, but fewer than before. As if someone had looked at the old spread, considered Sanji’s presence, and decided they didn’t need as much.

Luffy liked his food. Everyone liked his food. Sanji liked cooking.

He repeated that to himself while he made enough for the room and missed most of the first half of the game.

Then Zoro cursed at the television. It was sharp enough to cut through the kitchen noise. Sanji looked up, but from where he stood he could only see the side of the screen and the back of Franky’s head. Whatever had happened was already being replayed by the time he leaned far enough to catch it, and even then he couldn’t tell what had set Zoro off.

“What happened?” Sanji asked.

“Terrible call,” Franky said.

“Was not,” Jinbe said from the couch. “The defender had him wrapped before the ball arrived.”

“Barely!” Franky pointed at the screen. “That was nothing.”

Zoro sat forward, beer forgotten in one hand. “He never turned his head.”

“Exactly,” Jinbe said.

Franky threw both hands up. “Oh, come on.”

They got into it then, Zoro, Franky, and Jinbe dissecting the play as if it were the most important thing in the world. Zoro was more animated than Sanji usually saw him around the group, voice low but firm, arguing the angle of the defender’s body and the timing of the contact. Sanji understood enough now to know he might have been able to make fun of him for it, but he had missed the play.

The pan hissed in front of him. Luffy leaned over the counter, eyeing the next batch of food. Someone laughed at the poker table. On the TV, the game moved on.

Sanji turned back to the stove. It was fine. He was here with his friends. They were eating food he knew was good. They liked him. They wanted him here. 

He stirred the pan and smiled when Luffy asked if it was ready yet.

Franky was fixing a cannon that had become a new addition to the courtyard when Sanji returned from the library one early evening.

It sat near the mast, pointed toward the fountain at an angle. The thing was bright blue and red, with polished metal bands around the barrel and a little sunburst painted on the side. Franky had the front panel open, tools spread over the bricks around him, and a pair of welding goggles pushed up into his blue pompadour.

Sanji slowed beneath the string lights and stared at it. “Please tell me that’s decorative.”

“Check it out,” Franky said, caressing the side. “I made it myself.”

“It isn’t an actual working cannon, is it?”

Franky grinned. “We’re going to have the most super New Year’s party.”

Sanji shifted his messenger bag on his shoulder and planned to make plans to be elsewhere when the authorities came.

“Want to come up for a burger?” Franky asked. “I was about to put them on.”

“Sure,” Sanji said, pleased to be asked. He’d wanted to get to know Franky and Robin better, if she was home. He still didn’t know what Robin did for work, other than attend conferences with titles that sounded as if they required either a PhD or a shovel. He followed Franky up the gangplank to the second floor. Franky and Robin lived in the middle apartment, above the lower level where Franky’s workshop spread behind the brick walls.

Their place was warmer than Sanji expected from Franky, all dark bookshelves, odd little sculptures, and a couch covered in a patterned throw. The kitchen beyond the wall was brighter and messier, with a toolbox on one chair, mail by the fruit bowl, and a grocery bag waiting on the counter. 

Franky called out when they entered. “Hey, babe, Sanji’s here. I’m going to get the burgers going.”

Robin emerged from one of the bedrooms down the hallway with a smile. She wore a dark blouse and soft trousers, her hair pinned up loosely, a pen tucked behind one ear. “Hello, Sanji. It’s nice to see you.”

“A pleasure as always to bask in your beauty, Robin-chan.”

“Thank you,” Robin said softly. “But skin is just a fragile layer. Underneath, we are all wet bones and meat waiting to decompose.”

“That’s my darling blackheart.” Franky guffawed and kissed Robin on the cheek, then turned to Sanji. “Since you’re here, got any tips on making the burgers better, bro? Those ones you made at Luffy’s were super.”

“Spices, mainly, and whatever you’re using to fry it in,” Sanji said.

“My kitchen is your kitchen,” Franky said, gesturing to the room. “Show me how an expert does it.”

Sanji paused. He thought he’d been invited to visit and eat, but apparently he’d been invited to cook. Again. He pasted on a smile. “No problem. Which cabinet holds your spices?”

“You boys have fun,” Robin said. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when dinner is done.”

“Okay,” Franky said, and ushered Sanji into the kitchen.

The kitchen was bigger than Sanji’s, with more counter space and much worse organization. Franky had ground beef sitting in butcher paper by the stove, a bag of buns, a head of lettuce, tomatoes, a red onion, sliced cheese still in plastic, and a jar of pickles. The spice cabinet was mostly barbecue rubs, hot sauce, and three kinds of paprika, but there was garlic powder, onion powder, black pepper, and Worcestershire sauce, which was enough to work with.

Sanji washed his hands, took off his suit coat, and hung it over the back of a chair. “You want them smashed thin or thicker?”

Franky blinked. “I was going to make them burger-shaped.”

“Right,” Sanji said. “Thicker.”

Franky laughed. “Teach me your ways, bro.”

Sanji cooked the burgers, walking Franky through the basics and treating it as an opportunity to share good knowledge, the way Zoro taught him football. Franky watched with the same bright-eyed intensity Luffy usually reserved for finished food. 

“So you don’t mash the hell out of it?”

“Not unless you want hockey pucks with seasoning.”

Franky winced. “I’ve been making beef pucks.”

“We’ve all been there at one point.”

Once the burgers were on the table, Robin was called out, and they all sat down to eat. The dining table sat between the kitchen wall and the living room, close enough that Sanji could see the shelves from his seat. Robin had closed her office door behind her, but a stack of papers had followed her to the table. Franky cleared them gently to one side before she sat.

Sanji hoped to relax and enjoy himself now. Maybe now that the food was done, they could talk. Maybe they could build a friendship away from food, or at least around the table instead of over the stove.

Robin took one bite and closed her eyes briefly. “This is excellent.”

Franky agreed around a mouthful. “We should have Sanji over more often, so he can cook super supper like this.”

“I doubt he has the time to become our personal chef,” Robin said. “And Luffy would cause an uproar if we did. He already said he had eternal dibs.”

“Can’t beat eternal dibs.”

Sanji smiled tightly, and the hope died swiftly. “I’m just pleased to be of service.”

Conversation after that revolved around the cannon until the food was gone. Franky explained the loading mechanism in detail, including the part where it could fire confetti, streamers, fireworks, and possibly smoke bombs if Franky found the right powder. Robin asked several mild questions that only made the whole thing sound more illegal. Sanji nodded in the right places, finished his burger, and tried not to think too hard about personal chef, eternal dibs, or the way both had been said fondly.

Robin excused herself to return to her office. Sanji helped clean up, because he didn’t like leaving a mess.

“Great burgers, bro,” Franky told him with a slap on his back as he escorted Sanji out the door. “You ever feel like making them again, let me know.”

“Right,” Sanji said. “See you.”

He left, headed down the gangplank to his own apartment. The courtyard had gone darker while he was upstairs, the strings of lights glowing over the brick paving. The cannon sat near the mast, bright and ridiculous and pointed in a direction that could not possibly be safe. Brook’s music drifted faintly from an open window. Laughter came from the third floor. The Sunny felt alive around him.

Sanji’s apartment was quiet when he let himself in. He set his messenger bag on the hook, sank into his chair, and pulled out his phone. He stared at the lock screen for a moment, fighting the odd hurt he felt. Finally, he unlocked it and texted Zoro.

Sanji: we need to be far from here on NY eve

Sanji: franky put a working cannon in the courtyard

Zoro: good plan

Zoro: game tngt

Zoro: come over?

Sanji: is there ever not a game on?

Zoro: no

Zoro: i have all the ESPN

Sanji: ok. bring anything?

Zoro: just beer

Sanji brought a giant plate of chocolate crackle cookies and beer.

Zoro looked at the cookies with a frown. “That’s not just beer. And I don’t like chocolate.”

“More for me then.” Sanji passed the six-pack to Zoro and went over to the couch.

Zoro huffed a sigh and shut the door.

Sanji watched as he put the six-pack in the fridge and got out two beers from his own stash. His apartment was much the same as last time: the sports channel already on, the coffee table clear except for a bag of chips and a remote, the square table still covered in books and loose papers. The low platform bed was badly made but made. The swords on the wall caught the light when Zoro crossed in front of them.

He was wearing another tucked-in polo, dark rust in color, which went well with his moss green hair. The tag was sticking up in the back, making Sanji think he’d just put it on.

“Do you only wear polo shirts when I come over?”

Zoro lost a step as he walked to the couch, and redness splashed across his cheeks. He looked everywhere but at Sanji. “You always dress nice,” he said awkwardly.

“I do,” Sanji acknowledged, and it pleased him that Zoro both noticed and put in effort in response.

Zoro shoved the beer at Sanji, grabbed the remote, and turned the volume up on the TV before he sat down. His cheeks were still red.

Sanji needed this, the appreciation, the reciprocation. His shoulders lost tension as he ate a cookie. “You know, I don’t even know what you do for work.”

“I’m a first-year PhD student,” Zoro said, seemingly grateful for the change of subject. “And a TA at the university.”

Sanji’s brow climbed. “Didn’t peg you for a nerd.”

Zoro gave him a flat look, which made him grin.

“What’re you studying?” Sanji asked.

“Wano history,” Zoro said. “Specifically the Shimotsuki exodus and the swordsmith Shimotsuki Kōzaburō.”

Sanji nodded sagely, then drawled, “Nerd.”

Zoro huffed. “I work hard.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sanji said, softening. “It’s actually pretty cool.”

Faint color appeared again on Zoro’s face. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

The kickoff played on screen, and Sanji ate another cookie. “I never thought about going to college.”

Zoro glanced over at him questioningly.

Sanji went on. “I just wanted to get out of the house. Never really had a desire to be anything, other than away from them.”

“You work at a hotel, right?”

Sanji nodded. “Front desk. Not full time, because then they might have to offer benefits, but it’s enough that I can now have my own apartment.”

“Glad you picked here.”

The words were low, and Zoro focused intently on the TV.

Something more than warmth filled Sanji, and he played with the collar of his shirt. “Me, too.”

Zoro’s ears reddened, and he drank his beer.

Sanji cleared his throat. “So – football. Do we like the blue team or the white one?”

“White. The away team,” Zoro said. Then he went into the stats and other football nonsense that Sanji really didn’t care about but enjoyed hearing anyway.

The rest of the evening passed with football, beer, cookies, and conversation. Zoro explained the defensive scheme with the same blunt patience as before. Sanji made comments about the uniforms, the mascots, and one coach’s tragic haircut until Zoro snorted into his beer. The chocolate cookies stayed on Sanji’s side of the coffee table, which suited him fine, and Zoro ate chips without once asking Sanji to improve them.

When Sanji went home, it was with a smile on his face.

Game night came again, and Sanji’s budget was too tight to make anything to bring. He had a car insurance payment coming up, and a trip to the hygienist after that. The hygienist mattered, because skipping one cleaning turned into two, and two turned into dental work he absolutely could not afford. He had rent, utilities, groceries, laundry money, and the small list of things he kept pushing from one paycheck to the next.

He still brought a six-pack of Zoro’s brand of beer, which he was pretending was a coincidence.

By the time he got to Luffy’s door, the usual noise was already spilling into the hall. Football from the TV. Franky’s laugh. Brook’s voice carried over everyone else’s. Usopp complained over poker, and Chopper yelled in triumph from the floor. It sounded familiar enough now that Sanji smiled before he stepped inside.

“Sanji, you’re here!” Luffy’s greeting was enthusiastic as usual. He jumped up from the couch and hurried over, sandals slapping the floor. Then a confused expression appeared on his face. “No food?”

Sanji shook his head. “Not this time.”

“Oh.” Luffy stared at his empty hands for one more second, then brightened. “That’s okay. You can just make it here!”

Sanji blinked. “What?”

Luffy grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the kitchen. “Make something with meat.”

“Can you make cookies again, too?” Chopper piped up, climbing onto a stool at the counter.

Sanji set the beer on the island as he passed. He noticed there were only a few things out – a bowl of microwave popcorn, a bag of pretzels, two opened bags of chips, and a store-bought dip already dragged through with broken crumbs. There were paper plates beside them, napkins, soda, and not much else. Not enough for a group of twelve for three hours. He frowned as he rolled up his sleeves. There wasn’t even pizza.

Maybe Luffy had forgotten. Maybe someone else had been meant to bring something. Maybe everyone had assumed someone would order later. Maybe.

Sanji smiled faintly at Chopper. “If Luffy has all the ingredients.”

Chopper beamed. “He bought flour!”

“I bought flour,” Luffy said proudly. “And meat.”

“What kind of meat?”

Luffy opened the refrigerator and pointed. Sanji looked past his arm at ground beef, bacon, deli ham, a pack of hot dogs, shredded cheese, pickles, jalapeños, two bell peppers, and a carton of eggs. The pantry had tortilla chips, crackers, sugar, cinnamon, canned beans, and enough flour to make Chopper’s cookies possible.

“Sanji’s cooking? Super,” Franky said, coming over long enough to take one of the beers.

“Yeah,” Sanji said, watching the beer leave before Zoro had even arrived. “Super.”

He got to work.

There was no point doing it halfway. If he cooked, he cooked properly. He turned the ground beef into seasoned sliders and stretched part of it with beans and cheese for loaded nachos. He split jalapeños and bell peppers, filled them with cream cheese, bacon, and cheddar, and baked them until the tops blistered. He cut pickles into thick slices, dredged them, and fried them crisp. He made a quick sauce with hot sauce, mayonnaise, pickle juice, and garlic powder because Luffy had three bottles of hot sauce but somehow no actual plan. For Chopper, he mixed sugar cookie dough first, then snickerdoodles after finding cinnamon in the back of a cabinet.

The kitchen warmed fast. Oil snapped in the pan. The oven clicked and hummed. The smell of fried pickles and bacon and cinnamon filled the apartment, and every time Sanji set something out, people descended on it before he had finished the next thing.

He could hear the game on the TV, but he couldn’t see much of it from where he stood. He heard Zoro’s team name once, maybe twice. He heard poker conversation from the table, and Nami taking on Chopper’s Connect Four win streak with the same cheerful ruthlessness she brought to cards. Chopper sounded fierce enough that Sanji almost turned around to watch. Then the oil hissed hard when a pickle slice dropped in wrong, and Sanji focused on the pan instead.

Zoro came late, halfway through the second batch of fried pickles. The beer Sanji had brought was already gone. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sanji said, but he was in front of hot oil and couldn’t split his attention. He kept his eyes on the pan, tongs in hand. “Careful. It spits.”

Zoro didn’t move closer. “Yeah.”

There was a pause that might have been something if Sanji hadn’t been counting seconds in his head so the coating wouldn’t burn. Then Zoro went to the living room. A moment later, Sanji heard his voice, low and sharp, aimed at the TV.

Sanji finished the pickles, drained them on paper towels, and started the next tray.

By the time everything was served, over two hours had passed. The nachos were gone first. Then the sliders. The stuffed peppers disappeared almost as fast as he set them down. Chopper guarded the first plate of cookies for exactly thirty seconds before Luffy got around him. The second plate went out with Sanji’s hand still warm from the oven mitt.

Sanji had enough.

He hadn’t planned to cook at all. He hadn’t brought anything because he couldn’t afford to bring anything, and somehow that had turned into making half the food for the room from whatever Luffy had waiting in his kitchen. Cooking took attention. It took timing, cleanup, and care. It kept him behind the counter while everyone else played. 

He had just wanted to hang out. Maybe learn how to play poker better. Maybe challenge Chopper in Connect Four. Maybe watch enough football to make fun of Zoro properly.

Instead, he pushed his sleeves down and stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m heading out,” Sanji said, loud enough to be heard.

Luffy looked up from the couch, mouth full. “Aw, but what if I’m hungry again?”

Sanji stared at him. 

For a second, he waited for Luffy to laugh, or correct himself, or realize what he had just said. Luffy only looked back at him with open confusion, as if Sanji leaving before the food was completely impossible to understand.

Sanji didn’t bother to respond.

“Bye, Sanji,” someone called.

“Night.”

“See you, Sanji.”

The goodbyes came from around the room, offhand and distracted. Nami was looking at her cards. Franky had his eyes on the TV. Chopper waved with a cookie in his hand. Brook called something cheerful from the couch. 

Zoro met his eyes across the room, a small frown on his face. He had a beer in one hand and had turned halfway away from the television, attention fixed on Sanji instead of the game. He shifted as if he might stand.

Sanji lifted his hand briefly, stopping him before he could. Then he left.

The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. The door closed behind him with the muffled noise of the apartment still going on without him: TV, laughter, Luffy’s voice, someone arguing over cards. Sanji stood there for half a second with the smell of fry oil clinging to his shirt and cinnamon still caught in his hair.

Then he went downstairs to his own apartment.

Usopp: sanji my friend my savior my only hope

Usopp: im setting up a romantic dinner date with kaya 

Usopp: franky built a small gazebo on the roof

Usopp: will u please please please make the dinner

Usopp: kaya likes light healthy meals

Usopp: and really bad for u desserts

Usopp: think giant sundaes drenched in sauces and confections on top of gooey molten chocolate cake

Usopp: please with a cherry kaya would love on top? 🙏 🍒

Sanji: okay

Kaya was a sweetheart. Usopp was just as sweet, in a nervous, people-pleaser type of way. Sanji making dinner for them wasn’t a burden.

Franky’s little rooftop gazebo was ridiculous and charming, with battery candles tucked along the railing and a tablecloth Usopp kept smoothing flat every time the wind lifted one corner. Sanji set out lemon-herb chicken, a salad with strawberries and toasted almonds, small roasted potatoes, and the molten chocolate cakes Usopp had requested.

“Oh,” Kaya said when Sanji set the first plate down. Her face softened. “Usopp, this is beautiful.”

Usopp looked at Sanji with open panic and gratitude. “He did it. I mean, I helped. I carried plates. Very important work.”

“Extremely,” Sanji said, because Usopp looked as if he needed the support.

He played waiter because the gazebo was small, because the timing mattered, because the chocolate cakes needed to be served hot if they were going to be worth the trouble. He refilled water, brought out dessert, stepped back when Kaya laughed at something Usopp said, and told himself this was different. This was kind. This was for two people who appreciated it.

It was a good night. It really was. Usopp thanked him profusely for days after, both in texts and when they ran into each other in the courtyard. Kaya put a thank-you card under his door, written in neat handwriting on pale blue stationery, with a little pressed flower taped inside.

Sanji kept the card on his counter for three days before tucking it into a book. He felt guilty for the lingering feeling of not being pleased at being asked to make their dinner.

He felt guilty when Nami texted about another dinner and started discussing what appetizers he’d make before even asking if he was free.

He felt guilty when Franky asked him to eat again and wanted him to cook since he was so good at it.

He felt guilty when Chopper hoped for cookies during finals.

He felt guilty when he didn’t respond in a group text about the next game night, and Luffy asked, “Is Sanji coming? We need his food. It’s so yummy.”

Sanji was good at cooking. He’d practiced it. He enjoyed it. He didn’t mind doing it. Most of the time, he liked it. Cooking gave him something to do with his hands, something to offer, something that made people happy in a way he could see immediately. A plate set down, a first bite, a smile. It was simple. But he was starting to wonder if that was the only reason the others wanted him around.

He decided he wouldn’t cook at the next game night. Period. They hadn’t had a cook before him, so it wasn’t as if they needed one now. He didn’t confirm in the group chat, except to Zoro when he got a separate text Friday afternoon.

Zoro: u going to game night

Sanji: probably

Zoro: k

Zoro: will go too then

Sanji stared at that for longer than he needed to, thumb resting against the edge of the phone. Then he put it face down on the counter and got ready.

He showed up at Luffy’s with no beer, no food, just himself around seven.

The apartment was already loud. The game had started, the television throwing bright color over the living room. Brook was on the couch with his long legs crossed. Chopper sat on the floor near the coffee table, Connect Four grid in front of him like a battlefield. Nami was across from him, focused and smiling in a way that made Sanji suspect Chopper’s win streak was in real danger. Franky had one arm over the back of a chair. Usopp and Kaya were near the kitchen island, talking to Vivi. Jinbe was setting up the poker table. 

“Yay, you came!” Luffy enthused, popping up from the couch. “What’d you bring?”

“Nothing tonight.”

Luffy blinked. “Don’t worry, you can cook. I have food.”

Sanji shook his head. “I’m not cooking, either.”

Luffy appeared confused, his smile faltering into something almost wounded. Franky ambled over and clapped Sanji on the shoulder.

“Hey, bro. We’ve been waiting. What d’you got for us?”

“I’m off duty tonight,” Sanji said, and went to take a seat on the couch.

The chips were scarce. There was a bowl of pretzels, half a bag of popcorn, and a plate of store-bought cookies that looked as if someone had remembered at the last second. Sanji wasn’t going to let that sway him. He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and turned his attention to the game, which was just past kickoff.

Law dropped onto the couch beside him a few minutes later with a beer and a tired grunt.

“Long shift?” Sanji asked.

“Long existence,” Law said, and drank.

Law didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t leave either. Sanji didn’t know him well enough to know if that was normal or not. He really didn’t know anyone well, he realized, as his gaze traveled around the room. He knew things about people from what he’d been told by Zoro or seen in passing, but most of his conversations had happened while he was chopping, stirring, frying, plating, or cleaning up after food he had made. His one dinner with Franky and Robin had mostly been Franky’s kitchen and Franky’s cannon. Usopp and Kaya’s date had been sweet, but Sanji had been serving it. Otherwise, he’d always been in the kitchen.

It was… sad.

He resolved to talk to people tonight. Not Law, who looked on the verge of falling asleep sitting upright, but everyone else there.

It was easy, actually. He just needed to ask a few questions and they were off.

He asked Chopper about school, and Chopper lit up, explaining finals, anatomy labs, and the professor who gave trick questions. Nami beat him at Connect Four while he was distracted and looked extremely pleased with herself. Chopper demanded a rematch.

Sanji asked Usopp about work, and Usopp gave him an epic account of graphic design, which mostly seemed to involve being asked to make ugly things uglier by people who said to make things “more exciting” but also “less busy,” with bigger text, fewer words, brighter colors, and “a classier font, but fun.” Kaya covered her mouth while she laughed, then admitted she was a medical student and her work shifts were actually volunteer shifts at the hospital, which explained why she and Chopper occasionally disappeared into conversations full of medical terms Sanji didn’t understand. 

He asked Brook about his touring days, and Brook gave him a story involving a broken tour bus, a trombone player named Clive, and a cemetery in Sabaody. Sanji was almost certain none of it could be true, except Brook told it with such cheerfulness that doubting him felt rude.

He asked Jinbe what he had done before apartment management, and why he managed the complex instead of Franky, since Franky owned the place.

“Franky has many gifts,” Jinbe said mildly. “Remembering which bills are due is not one of them.”

“I remember eventually!” Franky called.

“The water company prefers sooner.”

Law woke up enough when the conversation somehow got into animals. Sanji still wasn’t sure how it happened. Chopper mentioned reindeer. Brook mentioned skeletal horses. Usopp mentioned sea monsters with too many legs. Then Law, who had been silent for nearly twenty minutes, opened one eye and said, “Polar bears are better swimmers than most people think.”

Sanji turned to him. “Are they?”

Law sat up enough to expound about polar bears with the flat intensity of a man who had been waiting years for someone to make the mistake of asking. He knew their range, their hunting habits, their paws, their fur, their liver toxicity, and several facts Sanji suspected he could have lived without. Chopper listened with shining eyes. Usopp looked progressively more alarmed.

It was nice to get to know them. Not perfect. Luffy still looked toward him hopefully whenever the snacks ran low. Franky asked once if Sanji was sure he didn’t want to “just improve” the dip, and Vivi sighed mournfully when they ran out of chips. But no one threw him out. No one stopped talking to him. They adjusted around his refusal, clumsily but not cruelly.

When Zoro eventually showed up over an hour later, grumbling about his GPS sending him all over town, Sanji felt like maybe he’d been mistaken about the others. Not entirely. Not enough to forget the way Luffy had asked what he’d brought before saying hello properly. But maybe enough that he could forget about it.

Zoro came in with his jaw set, hair wind-ruffled, and wearing a polo shirt under his jacket. This one was dark green, tucked in, the collar slightly crooked. Sanji saw it and had to look down at his own hands so he wouldn’t smile too obviously.

“Your GPS steered you wrong again?” Sanji asked.

“Sent me to the other side of campus,” Zoro muttered. “Then into a parking garage. Then I came out and it took me into another parking garage.” 

“Impressive.”

“Shut up.”

Zoro went to the kitchen first, opened the fridge, and took out two beers. Luffy called something from the couch, but Zoro ignored him, twisted both caps off, and came back across the room. He handed one to Sanji without making a production of it, then sank down beside him and gestured at the screen. “What’d I miss?”

“Gold team isn’t catching passes.”

Zoro glanced at the score. “Too bad. They need the win to make the playoffs.”

“What's after football?”

“Basketball. Preseason has started already.”

“Another sport I know nothing about.”

Zoro smiled crookedly at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

Sanji soaked in the smile, in the little pointed canines and the easy assumption that there would be more evenings, more games, more chances to sit beside him and be taught something useless. He gave up denying it did anything to him.

He settled back beside Zoro to enjoy the rest of the game.

Sanji hadn’t been mistaken, or at least not entirely. The next group text included multiple people wanting him to cook.

Luffy: game night friday

Franky: Got a late job at the shop but I’ll roll in when I’m done

Brook: I am free, alive in spirit, and tragically dead in body.

Nami: vivi has a thing until seven so we’ll come after

Chopper: i have a study group but ill be there if it doesnt go late

Jinbe: I will stop by after closing the office.

Usopp: kaya and i are doing dinner first but we can come after

Kaya: usopp means he forgot we already had plans until i reminded him lol

Law: shift

Luffy: sanji what are you making

Franky: Those sliders were SUPER!

Chopper: or maybe something with frosting 🧁

Brook: I would not object to another encounter with your baked goods.

Usopp: if there are sliders again i support sliders

Kaya: they were very good

Sanji stared at the screen for a long moment before typing.

Sanji: i dont know yet

Luffy: meat 🍖🍖🍖

Nami: better than ordering pizza again

Nami: last time it was cold and somehow still burned

Brook: A tragic duality. Much like life and death, only with worse cheese.

Jinbe: I would contribute to a pizza fund if needed.

Nami: im not paying for disappointment

Law: then dont order from the place luffy likes 

Luffy: i like all the places

Law: exactly

Luffy: so meat 🍖

Sanji: i said i dont know yet

Sanji set the phone facedown on the counter.

It happened again the next time. Then again after that. Sometimes it came through the group chat, fast and noisy and easy to brush aside because Luffy asked everyone for things all the time. Sometimes it came privately, which was harder to ignore.

Chopper asked for study food ideas, then turned them into a request so quickly Sanji barely noticed the shift until he was figuring out portions for Chopper’s whole review group. Franky sent him a picture of uncooked barbecue ribs and three question marks. Usopp hoped for something hot and spicy enough to straighten his hair. Brook sent a message praising the “graceful mortality” of Sanji’s garlic butter crackers and asking whether such beauty might appear again at game night. Robin, more politely than the rest, said she had enjoyed the sauce he made for the meatballs and would not object to seeing it again.

Kaya and Vivi were kinder. They said please. They said only if he had time. They said they had enjoyed what he made before. It should have made it better. It didn’t, really.

There was less “when are you going to” and more “I enjoyed,” but still. No one asked if he wanted to play poker. No one asked if he wanted to join the new Battleship tournament Chopper had started after finding the board game in Franky’s workshop. No one asked if he wanted to sit on the couch and watch the game he had finally started to understand.

Every invitation seemed to come with an empty kitchen waiting for him. Every compliment landed closer to expectation than thanks. Sanji knew how to cook; that had never been the problem. The problem was walking into a room and having everyone ask what he was making before anyone asked how his day was. He wanted to be invited because they liked him, not because he could feed them. 

He tried not to think that. But once he did, he couldn’t unthink it.

Football season slid into basketball season, and the requests stayed the same.

What are you making for game night?

Can you bring those wings again?

Do you think you could make dessert?

Pizza is stupid expensive, just saying.

Zoro’s new semester at school included two night classes, so he was busier than before, but he still asked Sanji over on the weekend.

Zoro: game @ 5

Zoro: come over

Sanji looked at the messages while standing in his kitchen with his fridge open. He’d been about to make himself something. 

Sanji: k

Sanji: bring anything?

Zoro: just beer

Sanji brought chicken salad sandwiches and beer.

Zoro gave him a look when he opened the door, then took the beer and stepped aside to let him in. “I can make sandwiches.”

“But you can’t make these sandwiches.” Sanji ditched his coat and sat on the couch. “Grab plates.”

Zoro sighed and did as told.

Basketball involved less interpretation and more complaining. The pros took too many three-pointers that missed and made the games less fun. College ball was better, according to Zoro, especially if the team knew how to defend. Women’s basketball was getting easier to find now that it was broadcast regularly, which Zoro considered one of the few good decisions television had made lately.

“The more people who watch women’s ball, the better,” Zoro said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Sanji looked at him over his sandwich. “You sound like you’re giving a public service announcement.”

“Maybe people should listen.”

“They should. You’re very convincing.”

Zoro gave him a flat look and ate another bite.

Sanji hid his smile behind his beer. The apartment was warm, the TV loud enough to fill the pauses without drowning them out. Zoro’s books were stacked on the coffee table until he moved them to the floor with one hand, clearing space for them. His laptop sat open on the dining table, half-buried under papers covered in notes. A pen had rolled dangerously close to the edge.

“So what are you going to do with that degree of yours?” Sanji asked, tapping the books with his foot. “Can’t be a lot of jobs out there for degrees in Wano history.”

“Researcher,” Zoro said. “I have an MLS. If not, then maybe I’ll try to teach at a university.”

“MLS is…”

“Master of Library Science.”

Sanji stared at him, delighted. “Nerd.”

Zoro flicked him off.

Sanji laughed, and the tightness in his chest eased for a while.

The next game night, Sanji decided to go and put his foot down. He didn’t bring food. He didn’t bring beer. He brought himself, his phone, and enough cash to contribute to pizza if that was what everyone else was doing. He dressed normally for him, in dark jeans and a button-down, because refusing to cook didn’t mean he had to look as if he had given up on his appearance.

Luffy’s apartment was already loud when he arrived. The game was on, and the poker table had people around it, Nami at the center with a neat stack of chips in front of her and the pleased look of someone already winning. The Battleship board had been set up on the floor near the couch, with Usopp explaining special rules that were definitely not part of the game to Chopper while Kaya watched with amused suspicion. Robin sat on the arm of the couch beside Brook, dryly adding commentary to the basketball game whenever the announcers said something obvious. Jinbe stood near the counter with a drink in hand, listening to Franky argue with the television as if the players might hear him through the screen. 

“Sanji!” Luffy lit up the second he came in. “You’re finally here! Now we can eat!”

Sanji stopped just inside the door.

“We’ve missed your cooking these past several game nights,” Robin said in an aside, not unkindly.

The guilt arrived first, sharp and familiar. Then the hurt came under it.

“I’m not cooking anymore,” Sanji said.

Luffy blinked. “Tonight?”

“For anyone,” Sanji said, more firmly. He raised his voice enough to be heard over the TV. “Please stop asking me.”

Silence lasted only a second. The TV seemed louder, shoes squeaking across the court, the announcer raising his voice over a replay. Usopp rubbed his nose. Robin’s gaze stayed on Sanji, calm and unreadable. Chopper looked down at the Battleship board. Nami glanced toward the kitchen with a frown. 

Franky scratched the back of his neck. “That’s too bad, bro.”

“I suppose we will have to start bringing food again,” Brook said.

“A pity,” Robin said. “Your dishes were delightful.”

“Indeed,” Jinbe agreed from near the counter.

Usopp, Kaya, Vivi, and Chopper gave him sad looks but said nothing. Kaya’s expression held apology, which made Sanji feel worse. Chopper looked between Sanji and Luffy, worried in the way kind people got when they wanted everyone happy and had no idea how to make that happen. 

Nami reached for her phone. “All right. Pizza fund. Everyone start ponying up.”

Luffy’s eyes went watery. “But your food is the best.”

Sanji stood firm. “Thank you. But I’m still not going to cook.”

He gave money for pizza and found a place to sit. He tried to stay. That was the whole point. He had wanted to come to game night, not make a scene and leave. He watched a little of the game. He listened to Usopp and Chopper argue over Battleship. He answered Kaya when she asked about his week. He made himself smile at Brook’s terrible joke.

Zoro wasn’t there. It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

Later, when the pizza had arrived and everyone had moved on because people did, Law pulled him aside near the kitchen. He had a slice of pizza on a paper plate and the same exhausted expression he wore almost all the time.

“Luffy-ya’s sad that you won’t cook anymore,” Law said.

Sanji looked toward the living room. Luffy was eating pizza with his usual appetite, though he glanced toward Sanji when he noticed him looking.

“He’ll be sad every time you don’t,” Law said. “I dislike seeing him unhappy.”

Sanji felt the old reflex rise – apologize, fix it, make himself useful. “I get it.”

Law gave him a long look, as if he might say something else, then apparently decided not to. He went back to the couch.

Sanji stayed long enough that leaving wouldn’t look like fleeing. Then he said goodnight, accepted the distracted goodbyes, and went downstairs with pizza grease in his mouth and a tightness behind his ribs.

The next group chat about game night came a couple of weeks later.

Luffy: game night friday 

Franky: I’m in! 

Robin: As am I. 

Brook: My schedule is open. 

Jinbe: I will be there. 

Usopp: kaya and i can stop by after her shift 

Kaya: if usopp finishes his design revisions first 

Usopp: betrayed in public 😭 

Chopper: ill come after lab 

Nami: vivi and i are in 

Luffy: sanji food 

Nami: he’s not doing that anymore remember 

Nami: we’re stuck with pizza and whatever everyone brings 

Luffy: sad 😭🍖 

Franky: I can bring chips! 

Brook: I can bring napkins. A humble but noble contribution. 

Law: bring food 

Nami: bring money 

Luffy: sanji should still come though

For one stupid second, Sanji’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then Luffy sent another message.

Luffy: maybe he’ll change his mind if he sees we only have pizza 🍕🍕🍕 

Sanji stared at the screen until it dimmed.

He left the group chat without a word.

No one reached out privately in text to say he was missed. No one asked directly why he hadn’t been at game night, or why he had gone quiet in the chat, or whether something had happened. Maybe they noticed and didn’t know what to say. Maybe they were busy. Maybe they assumed he needed space. 

Maybe his cooking was what mattered.

Sanji still saw them in passing. Chopper in the courtyard with his backpack, who looked at Sanji with wide, worried eyes and said, “You didn’t come to game night,” before immediately adding that the pizza had been okay but not as good as Sanji’s food. Brook by the mailboxes, who regaled him about a concert in the park. Franky hauling tools out of the workshop, who called that game night wasn’t the same without him, then asked if Sanji had ever made loaded fries. Nami and Vivi crossing the second-floor bridge together. Everyone waved. Everyone smiled. No one asked the right question. They were kind in the same casual way they had always been. It only reached so far. 

Kaya was the only one who came close. She caught him by the mailboxes one evening, hesitated with her keys in one hand, and said, “I hope you’re all right.”

Sanji smiled automatically. “Of course, Kaya-chan.”

She looked as if she wanted to say more, then accepted the answer he had given her and nodded. “Good. I’m glad.” 

Then she went upstairs, and Sanji stood beside the mailboxes with his electric bill in one hand, feeling the strange hollow of being cared about politely.

Sanji went to work. He went to the library. He bought groceries. He came home and made dinner for one.

His phone stayed quiet.

Then, Friday around four, while Sanji was eating his version of breakfast, it buzzed on the kitchen table. 

Zoro: u going to game night?

Sanji looked at the message for a long moment.

Sanji: no

Zoro: k

Zoro: i need to grade anyway

Sanji: don’t not go on my account

Zoro: didn’t always go before

Zoro: was only going every time bc of u

Sanji’s face heated.

He read the messages again, then once more because apparently he enjoyed making himself suffer. Zoro had said it as if it were no bigger than kickoff or a team needing ten yards. He had been going because Sanji was there.

Sanji scrolled back through their texts. Every time he asked what to bring, Zoro gave the same answer. Beer. Nothing else. And every time Sanji showed up with food anyway, Zoro huffed or sighed and told him it wasn’t necessary. He had chips. He had dip. He had frozen pizza, takeout, or sandwiches he claimed he could make himself. He had never been waiting for Sanji to feed him. 

Sanji thought of all the hours they’d spent together. Football, then basketball. Zoro’s school. Sanji’s work. Old injuries from childhood stupidity. Bad tourists. Good books. Bargain Basement Ghost Hunters, which Zoro watched with complete sincerity and unwavering focus, then broke down afterward as if reviewing bad game tape. Random things that came up when two people sat near each other often enough to stop needing a reason. Somewhere in all that, Sanji had become part of Zoro’s evenings. Not the food. Him.

Sanji: get together Sat instead?

Zoro answered almost immediately.

Zoro: game on Sat @4 or 6

Sanji: 4

Sanji: i’ll bring beer

Zoro: just beer

Sanji smiled despite himself.

On Saturday, Sanji brought beer. Just beer.

Zoro opened the door in dark jeans and a polo shirt the color of red wine, tucked in as usual, the collar lying properly for once. His gaze dropped to Sanji’s hands, saw the six-pack and nothing else, then came back up to his face. He shot Sanji a crooked grin and stepped aside. “You listened.”

“Miracles happen.” Sanji held out the beer. “Don’t get used to it.”

Zoro took the six-pack and let him in.

His apartment smelled faintly of coffee and paper. Books had migrated from the table to the couch and back again, as if Zoro had made an attempt at clearing space and lost interest halfway through. A stack of graded papers sat near the laptop. Two pens lay on the floor. The TV was on low, pregame coverage running through injury reports and playoff odds.

Zoro put the beer in the fridge. When he came back, he had two bottles open, one held out to Sanji.

Sanji took it and sat on the couch. Zoro had cleared a place for him, though the coffee table was still covered in books and papers.

“You eat yet?” Zoro asked.

Sanji looked over. “No.”

“Want me to order?”

For a second, Sanji didn’t answer.

Zoro glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sanji said. “Thai?”

“Yeah.” Zoro dropped beside him and picked up his phone. “Same place?”

“Sure.”

“You liked the spicy noodles.”

Sanji felt warmed that Zoro remembered. “Yeah. I do.”

Zoro ordered with his attention already split between his phone and the TV. Sanji leaned back into the couch, beer cold in his hand. He wasn’t in the kitchen, wasn’t asked to make anything. He was here because Zoro wanted him here.

“Tipoff’s in ten,” Zoro said, tucking his phone away.

Sanji glanced at the graphics on the screen. By now, he knew what most of them meant. Records. Injuries. Shooting percentages. Names Zoro had complained about often enough that Sanji recognized them on sight. “Is this one supposed to be good?”

“Should be. Both need the win.”

“Then I’ll pay attention.”

Zoro gave him a sideways look.

“Some attention,” Sanji amended.

Zoro huffed and turned back to the screen. For a while they watched the pregame show, drinking beer while Zoro explained who had been injured, who had been traded, and why one coach had no business being allowed near a clipboard. Sanji listened partly because Zoro cared, and partly because Zoro caring was becoming one of Sanji’s favorite things to watch.

The food arrived just after tipoff. Zoro paid, brought the bag in, and unpacked spicy noodles, curry, and dumplings onto the coffee table. He set the noodles closest to Sanji without comment. Then he grabbed one real fork from a drawer in the kitchen, offered it to Sanji, and picked up the tiny plastic one for himself. 

Sanji stared at the fork. "You only have one fork?"

“Yeah,” Zoro said, fighting with the plastic wrap.

"What happened to the rest?"

Zoro got it open and bobbled it when it tried to fall on the floor. "Luffy probably walked off with them."

Sanji pinched the bridge of his nose. "How do you eat?"

Zoro held up a plastic fork from the takeout bag.

"You're a graduate student."

"Yeah."

"You read historical documents in three languages."

"Two and a little bit of a third."

"You own swords worth more than my car."

"Probably."

"And you have one fork."

Zoro shrugged and took a bite of curry. "Works."

"No, it doesn't. It barely qualifies as surviving."

"It qualifies enough."

Sanji sighed dramatically and went back to his noodles with the plastic fork. "I'm buying you forks."

"Don't."

"I'm absolutely buying you forks."

"I don't need fancy forks."

"I wasn't going to buy fancy–" Sanji changed course without shame. "Now I'm buying fancy forks."

Zoro huffed into his beer, the corner of his mouth threatening a smile.

Sanji decided right then that the forks were going to be engraved.

The game started. Sanji knew enough now to follow most of it, though he still asked questions because Zoro’s explanations were better than the announcers. The sky outside Zoro’s windows darkened slowly. The courtyard lights came on below. Elsewhere in the building, Brook started playing music soft enough that it threaded under the TV without competing.

Sanji glanced sideways at Zoro. The dark wine polo suited him. It made his hair look greener, his skin warmer. “I have a suit in nearly that color.”

Zoro looked over, then back at the TV a little too quickly. “You probably look great in it.”

“I do,” Sanji said casually. “I’ll wear it on our date.”

Zoro went still. Then color rose hard in his face, all the way to the tips of his ears, and he cleared his throat. “Okay.”

On the TV, the announcer said something about defensive pressure. Outside, someone laughed in the courtyard. The apartment felt very quiet around the hum of the game.

Sanji’s pulse tripped. “Okay?”

Zoro looked at him then, direct despite the color in his face. “Yeah.”

Sanji smiled slowly. “Early Sunday night?”

Zoro shifted his grip on the beer bottle, thumb dragging once over the label. “I’m free.”

“Dinner, then.”

“Yeah.” Zoro looked back at the TV, then added, “I’ll pick you up.”

Sanji’s smile softened before he could stop it. “We live in the same building.”

“I know.”

It was ridiculous. It still made Sanji’s chest ache. 

What would happen with the rest of the people in the complex was something he didn’t know. He would still see them in the courtyard, on the stairs, by the mailboxes. They would still wave. Luffy would probably still ask about food the next time he caught sight of him, because Luffy asked about food the way other people asked about the weather.

Sanji didn’t hate them for it. That almost made it worse. He had wanted them to be his friends. Instead, they had liked him best in the kitchen, with his sleeves rolled up and people waiting to eat. He could stop cooking for them. He could stay out of the chat. He could stop walking into rooms where the first question was what he had brought. But he couldn’t make that not hurt. 

At least he got Zoro out of it.

Sanji leaned back beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Zoro stayed where he was, close and red-eared and pretending very hard to watch the game.

Sanji smiled and let him.

End