Sanji didn’t know when he started to notice, only that once he did, it was all he could pay attention to.
He knew without a doubt that Luffy wanted him there. That he belonged on the Sunny with her crew. That his crewmates were his nakama. Almost losing them all had shown him that, carved it into him deeper than any reassurance ever could.
He dusted the prep counter with flour, scattering it in a pale sweep beneath his fingers before turning the dough out of the covered dish. It came loose, warm and soft, still faintly yeasty from its rest, and settled under his palms with the familiar give of something that only needed patience. The galley was bright under the overhead lights, the counters cleared, the dishes washed, dried, and put away, dinner long since finished. Beyond the portholes, night pressed dark against the glass. The crew had scattered through the ship, their voices gone distant behind walls and decks and closed doors. The Thousand Sunny creaked and rolled beneath him, waves brushing against the hull in low, regular sounds while Sanji folded the dough over itself and began to knead.
It was like this every night. Sanji, alone in the galley, prepping whatever needed to rise or set for the morning. Everyone else enjoying their evening in the Aquarium Bar, or the library, or around the sunken table in the men’s quarters, unless they had watch. Sanji would bring a snack and a drink to the crow’s nest once he finished kneading, and another just before bed when watch changed over.
Sanji loved cooking. He loved feeding others. Being in the galley was where he felt most comfortable, most capable, most himself. He wouldn’t trade being the Straw Hats’ cook for anything.
But it was a lot of work, and a lot of time alone.
He got up at five to wash, dress, and have a morning smoke before he started breakfast. After breakfast and cleanup, he made mid-morning drinks and snacks, then started on lunch prep. After lunch cleanup came the mid-afternoon drinks and snacks, along with dinner prep. Sometimes there were two rounds of drinks, depending on whether the weather was too hot or too cold, whether they’d been fighting a rival ship. Finally, after dinner cleanup, Sanji prepped what needed doing for the next morning and made the night watch food and drink.
Although he wasn’t on the roster for ship’s chores, he still had things he preferred to handle himself. Laundry, mostly, because he would only trust Nami or Robin with his suits and he wasn’t about to let the ladies do it. He also took inventory for non-food stock, such as soap, washing supplies, replacement towels, and the rest of the little necessities people only noticed when they ran out. He went over his food stores regularly, too, checking dry goods, spices, preserved meats, fruit, vegetables, flour, rice, tea, coffee, and everything else they might need if they were becalmed or forced to ration. All of it took time. All of it was done alone.
He knew he started noticing the alone time once they came aboard the Sunny. There were so many different spaces where the crew could gather, unlike on the Merry, where everyone was always tripping over each other because there was nowhere else to go. He didn’t really think about it then, though. Not until after Whole Cake Island. Not until after Wano. Not until after he nearly lost everything twice.
Before, he’d been too busy proving he was needed to pay attention. Too unsure of his place. Too worried about being seen as a failure, or useless, or a burden they had taken on because Luffy’s heart was too big and too stubborn for his own good. Sanji was a good fighter, but the crew relied on him for food first and foremost. If he couldn’t do that job right, what good was he?
Now, he knew Luffy wanted him on the ship. Knew his place was secure. Knew he wasn’t going anywhere, and that he would be with the crew until the end.
But because of that, he started noticing that the only time anyone sought out his company was when they wanted something to eat or drink.
It was a small thing, at first. Brook coming in to ask for tea, remaining only long enough to drink it before drifting back out with a polite thank-you. Robin with her cup of coffee in the morning before she left for the bath. Zoro demanding something after training, drinking and wolfing it down, then stomping off for a nap. Chopper poking his head out of the infirmary, hoping Sanji might make him something sweet.
Then Sanji started to realize it happened with everyone. Luffy, he expected, because their captain was a bottomless pit with a heartbeat. But Jinbe would come in and quietly ask for something to take to the helm. Usopp wanted something to bring to his workshop. Nami stopped by to pick up a hot drink while she worked at her desk. Franky needed cola refills and occasionally a greasy snack.
No one would stay. And no one came into the galley just to sit and talk to him without any food or drink-relative motive.
Sanji brushed it off at first. He was their cook, after all. They relied on him for service, and he was happy to provide it. He liked making people happy with food and drink. He liked knowing their preferences, knowing exactly how Nami took her coffee when she was buried in maps, how Brook liked his tea steeped, how much sugar Chopper would try to charm out of him if given half a chance. He knew what Zoro would deny liking and eat anyway. He knew what Luffy would steal if Sanji turned his back. He knew all of that.
But being secure with himself meant he was no longer consumed by worry. It gave him room to think about other things. Such as the fact that the crew was his nakama, but maybe to them, he was just a cook who happened to be a good fighter.
He turned the dough over, folded it, and kneaded it again. His knuckles pressed out the air, working the dough until it smoothed beneath his hands. The scent of yeast and the fading remains of spice from dinner hung in the air, warm and familiar. In the morning, he’d make fresh cinnamon rolls and bread. The bread would become eggy toast at breakfast, then finger sandwiches for snacks later in the day.
The ship shifted gently underfoot. Outside, a pulley knocked against the mast. Sea wind pushed at the portholes in the galley walls. No footsteps came up the outer steps. No one came to join him, to sit at the breakfast bar and talk about anything that had nothing to do with food.
Sanji had a lot of interests outside of cooking. He enjoyed reading high fantasy novels, romances, and the occasional biography. He liked fashion and beauty beyond his obvious love of women, liked the cut of a good jacket, the fall of fabric, the way color changed under candlelight or sun. He found the topography of the various islands they visited fascinating, the different climates and compositions of the land, the way soil and weather shaped what grew, what people ate, how they lived. He liked everything about fish, not only how they tasted, but how they moved, how they migrated, how each sea held its own strange abundance.
Oh, he participated in conversations over meals or during victory celebrations, laughing and arguing and dodging Luffy’s hands when their captain reached for whatever Sanji had set aside for someone else. But he couldn’t recall simply sitting and sharing something of himself with someone. Not without serving a plate, pouring a drink, passing something warm across the counter.
His chest ached from it, a constant hollow feeling centered behind his breastbone. He tried to tell himself it was a two-way vessel – he could initiate just as well. He could leave the galley. He could sit with the others. He could push his way into whatever nonsense Luffy and Usopp were doing, or ask Robin about her book, or bother Jinbe while he worked, or drag Franky into a discussion about ship modifications just to get conversation going.
But he was always in the galley unless he gave up providing in-between drinks and snacks, and the thought of doing that struck wrong. It felt careless. Selfish, maybe, though he hated that part of himself for thinking it. The crew deserved to be fed well. They deserved small comforts. They deserved someone paying attention. So he was at an impasse he had yet to get around, and in the meantime, he felt alone.
Sanji turned the dough over one last time, then moved it back to the bowl to rise. He covered it carefully, wiped down the counter, washed his hands, and took out ingredients to start the watch snacks. Rice, nori, pickled plums, salted fish, the last neat strips of tamagoyaki he’d saved. His fingers moved by habit, damp with salt water so the rice wouldn’t stick, shaping each onigiri firm enough to hold together through a long watch in the crow’s nest.
Outside, he heard Franky yell something, loud enough to carry through the deck. Nami shouted back, irritated and fond in equal measure. Then the ship fell silent again, as Sanji cooked.
End