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It is so easy to hide. He’s very good at it, or if not good at hiding, good at being hidden. It comes naturally to him. He is good at being a secret.
It’s a shame he died because of it. A tragic accident, his father says, but won’t go into detail.
He knows, or thinks, maybe that’s a better word, because he’s far from certain, that he didn’t really die. That the cold metal on his face isn’t a burial shroud, that as long as he eats he must be alive, that if bruises bloom on his skin then there must be blood circulating.
But all of that seems so doubtful.
There are times when Sanji cooks that he feels like a child again, picking up the knife for the first time in the better part of a year, shaking with excitement at the prospect of getting to cook.
When he’s like that, it feels like a vision into his own future, not the life he’s living right now. He’s free, has been free for years, knows this on some level but can’t believe it, because he’s really still a child chained below his house, a shameful failure to be hidden away.
The feeling usually passes, gets stirred back into the rest of his thoughts, isn’t even perceptible to his friends when they come and talk to him. His youthful exhilaration at being free is a detail they don’t even know to look for, like toasting the spices in their own pan before adding them on top.
It’s hard to believe that none of his friends leave their body like he does.
“I love the thrill of the fight,” Zoro tells him, smile spreading across his face at the mere thought. “I never feel more myself than when I’ve got a sword in each hand and one in my mouth. It makes me feel alive.”
Sanji does not feel that way. When he fights, it’s not his legs which kick. It’s the man his father always wanted him to be. He is a powerful warrior even if he falls short of supersoldier status. Sanji is just along for the ride.
“What do you mean, you don’t feel more in touch with your body when you’re fighting?” Zoro asks. “The way you fight - I’d think you had eyes in the back of your head. And you’re telling me you’re just a passenger?”
Sanji nods, shrugs, smiles. “Yeah. Is it really that weird?”
“I can’t speak for everyone, but I don’t think that between the two of us, I’m the weird one,” Zoro says.
This is disquieting.
“You forget conversations while you’re having them?” Nami asks.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Sanji replies.
“No,” she says. “How often does this happen?”
Sanji shrugs. “I don’t know. Not daily, but a lot.”
“Why don’t you ever mention it?”
He shrugs again. “I thought it was normal.”
“Aren’t you ever confused when it happens? About what we’re talking about?”
“I just figure it out,” Sanji says. “I thought everyone did this.”
“No,” Nami says. “No, we definitely don’t.”
It is a long and hard process, finding out what this means. Why, out of all his friends, is Sanji the only one to forget, to dissociated, to feel doubled-up?
On one of the islands they visit, somebody suggests he might be plural. That maybe, he’s like this because he’s not the only one inside his body. That maybe he’s sharing his body with others, people who respond to his name and wear his clothing but who aren’t him.
It’s difficult to think about. But the longer he thinks about it, the more he thinks this person might be right.
He’s lying in his bunk, thinking about it, wondering, if he shares his body, then who does he share it with?
“I’m still here.” It’s his voice, but not his voice. His voice as it was when he was much younger is back, coming from his mouth as if no time has passed.
“Who are you?” he says to his ceiling.
“Vinsmoke Sanji,” his young voice replies. “I died when I was eight years old.”
His stomach churns. “You’re dead?”
“Yes,” young Sanji says. Is he making their face smile? “I’m dead, so Father locked me in the dungeons. Dead people have to stay in the dungeons.”
“They do?” old Sanji asks.
“Yep! But sometimes…” he giggles. “Sometimes I want to leave the dungeons, even though I’m not allowed. I want to cook.”
“What if I told you that you get to leave the dungeons and cook?”
He’s definitely smiling, now. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”