One of the first things Sanji noticed about the Straw Hat crew – aside from how warm and welcoming they were – was how loud they were. Talking, laughing, yelling, shouting. The noise was constant. It was jarring after years of silence broken only by his own screams.
It was his first dinner aboard the Thousand Sunny. He and Luffy had sat on the lion figurehead as they sailed away from Germa, twenty-one years after his birth – thirteen of which he’d spent as a prisoner in his own home – watching the sun dip below the horizon. The reds, golds, and purples reflected against the clouds, the orange shimmer across the water swelling briefly before vanishing into twilight. Sanji had been struck speechless by the beauty of it. He couldn’t remember watching sunsets as a child, before he was locked away for being a failed experiment. And if he had, he hadn’t appreciated them.
Luffy had brought him to the galley when dinner was called, pushing him into a seat. The galley was divided by a bartop that separated the kitchen from the dining area. A large table seated eight, with Franky – now sporting real skin after the battle with the Germa army – seated at the bar and Jinbe lounging on the sofa that lined the wall between the infirmary and the main deck. Soft sconces glowed above the couch, and a small service elevator ran down to the Aquarium Bar, which Luffy promised to show him after they ate.
Dinner was a loud, boisterous affair. The meal was a ramen-egg concoction with plain white rice on the side. Sanji hadn’t had a choice in what he ate, but the chefs in Germa had been top-notch. Still, it felt rude to complain about the blandness, especially when he was eating without a helmet over his face for the first time in thirteen years.
He had been nothing – a ghost in his own life, erased by his family, locked away and forgotten. His loneliness had been punctuated by pain, his body a plaything for his cruel brothers. For years, he clung to a dream he wasn’t allowed to chase, flipping through a cookbook like it was a lifeline. Then, strangers had arrived, not for him, but they didn’t leave him behind. They gave him soap, scissors, a toothbrush, clean clothes – and a choice. With trembling hands and cautious hope, he stepped into the light. Into freedom. Now the sea stretched wide before him, and the dream he had only dared to imagine felt suddenly, unbelievably, real.
He marveled at the little things. Putting a fork directly in his mouth. Drinking from a glass instead of pouring water through a guard muzzle and drenching himself in the process. His hands trembled as he held the glass, misshapen fingers uncertain against the smooth surface. He used a cloth napkin to wipe his lips. Soft and washable, it felt like a luxury. Even the chair felt strange beneath him after years of sitting on cold stone floors. And the scents – the warm tang of egg, the faint hiss of gas from the stovetop, the smell of ten bodies pressed into a space, all of them carrying their own blend of sweat, perfume, and life – were overwhelming in the best way.
“We should reach Walnut Grove in four days,” Nami said, as Sanji watched Luffy’s arm stretch across the table like a slow, slithering snake.
“Doesn’t that have a big city?” Franky asked, sipping a cola.
“Yeah, And a big shipyard, too,” Nami said. “We’ll stay until the Sunny’s repaired – unless Luffy does something stupid and forces us to leave.” She stabbed Luffy’s hand with a fork.
“Ow!” Luffy yelped, snatching his hand back and pouting.
“That’ll give us time to take our new nakama shopping,” Robin said, smiling at Sanji.
“Oh, no, you don’t need to do anything for me,” Sanji said, shifting uncomfortably. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
“Nonsense,” Nami said. “Besides, it’s your gold we took. We can spend it on you.”
It wasn’t his. It had been his father’s. But he wasn’t going to quibble. “Um. Alright.”
“Might want to stock the kitchen, too,” Zoro said, downing a slug of sake. “If Curlybrows here wants to learn to cook.” He glanced briefly at Sanji, his gaze lingering just a moment before sliding away.
Sanji felt the strange, unfamiliar heat slide up his neck from beneath the collar of his borrowed white shirt. He didn’t understand why it kept happening.
“Good idea,” Nami said. “I’ll get enough so you can try anything you want, Sanji-kun. Don’t worry about running out of food.”
Sanji ducked his head, a thrill of excitement racing through him at the thought of cooking. “You’ll really allow me to cook?”
“Of course we will!” Luffy said. “That’s your dream.”
“Luffy-san’s big on dreams,” Brook added with a skeletal smile.
Sanji still found it amazing that a skeleton could walk, talk, and have an afro. Or that a talking reindeer was the ship’s doctor. Or a cyborg wore such tiny swimwear. He’d read about Fish-Men before, so Jinbe wasn’t a complete surprise, but still, it was bizarre and incredible to meet one in person.
“Since we are staying at Walnut Grove for some time, will we be obtaining hotel rooms?” Jinbe asked Nami.
“Maybe,” Nami said, taking another bite of her dinner. “But just because we’re rich now doesn’t mean I want to blow it all in one place.”
“Is my debt finally cleared?” Zoro asked, giving her a flat look.
Nami grinned. “Depends on whether or not you piss me off.”
Zoro grumbled, and a few of the crew laughed at his expense.
Conversation shifted into tentative plans for the city – places they wanted to visit, things they hoped to buy – and Sanji sat quietly, taking it all in. The constant noise was still jarring, but there was peace in it, too. This was what life sounded like. And he wanted to learn how to live again.
Sanji was given a bunk in the men’s quarters, located on the main deck of the ship. The space was large and shared, with four rows of double bunks suspended on chains, a sitting area, a row of lockers, and a sink for washing up. The walls were plastered with wanted posters and flyers for Brook’s concerts – apparently, he was a fairly famous musician known as the Soul King. The floor was scattered with clothes, books, old papers, and an assortment of random clutter.
Franky, the Sunny’s shipwright, showed Sanji to his locker and bunk, one of the lower ones, between Zoro and Brook. Zoro had tossed him a pair of pajama bottoms with a shrug and a gruff, “I don’t wear them anyway.” Then he’d wandered off to take the watch and train.
Sanji had felt a strange stab of disappointment that Zoro wasn’t changing along with the others.
The pajama bottoms were plain black cotton, loose at the waist but long enough to hit his ankles properly. As he changed, he noticed a few side-glances from Usopp, Franky, and maybe Brook, though it was hard to be sure, since the skeleton had no eyes. It didn’t make him uncomfortable, just curious. He figured it was either because he was new, a novelty… or maybe it was the thinness of his frame, the way his body bore the evidence of years locked away, scarred and underfed.
As Sanji settled into his bunk, the sheer softness of the mattress and blanket, the luxury of a pillow, drew a quiet groan from his chest. He stared up at the whorled wood of the bunk above – Luffy’s bunk – and simply breathed. The comfort was unfamiliar, almost surreal. Simple things he’d been missing: a real bed, in a room that was warm instead of damp and cold. A tear pricked the corner of his eye. He blinked it away quickly.
He was nearly overwhelmed by the depth of his fortune, how the Straw Hats had arrived on Germa, how they’d accepted him without question, with open arms and open hearts.
He would’ve died in that dungeon. He knew it. Not from illness or injury, but from neglect. Eventually, he would’ve been forgotten, even by his brothers. A nameless guard would keep delivering meals through the slot in the wall, voiceless and indifferent, sustaining a prisoner without a name. He would’ve withered from solitude, with no purpose, no warmth, no sun. Just a husk in a helmet, growing old in the dark. That had been his fate.
Until Zoro took a wrong turn and found him.
Thinking about Zoro brought that strange heat back, along with a stirring in his pajama bottoms. Sanji found it odd, disconcerting, but not in an unpleasant way. His penis had hardened randomly before, especially throughout his mid-teenage years, often in the mornings. He’d never really understood why. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could ask his sister about, and definitely not his cruel brothers. He’d chalked it up to human biology, like the hair he’d started growing in odd spots.
The hardness always faded on its own, so he never saw it as something that required attention. Besides, there had always been other pain to focus on – healing bones, deep bruises, cuts from the beatings. Curiosity had taken a back seat to survival.
Maybe the Sunny’s library had a book that could explain it. Not just this, but all the other questions he’d never had answered. Why did hair grow on his chest and between his legs? What was the black armor his body sometimes produced, and where did it come from? What part of his brain controlled foresight? Why did his arm go numb if he slept on it, and what caused the strange, prickling sensations as the feeling returned?
There were so many things Sanji didn’t know – things far beyond his own body – that he was desperate to learn. What did music really sound like? Did skin actually change color in the sun? How did heat transform raw ingredients into food? What did a baby look like up close? He’d read about these things in books, but never experienced them. Some were fragments of childhood memory, blurred at the edges. Others had always been out of reach, locked away behind steel bars and the desire to forget he existed.
Anticipation bubbled in his gut, layered with a familiar thread of fear – this all felt too good to be true. He was out of that cell. Far from Germa. Surrounded by people who seemed to want nothing but good for him. And yet… he kept bracing for the other shoe to drop. For it all to vanish. A trick. A coma. A dream spun from hollow wishes.
The lights clicked off, and a soft chorus of “Good night” echoed in the dark. Sanji pulled the blanket up to his neck, caught between exhaustion and tension. He prayed sleep wouldn’t unravel the illusion, that he wouldn’t wake to stone walls and silence.
Because if this wasn’t real… if none of it lasted… he wasn’t sure he’d survive waking up.
After more than half a life in captivity, hope was the hardest thing to hold.
The cacophony of snorts, whistles, and wheezes made it difficult to sleep. The bunk swayed gently on its chains as the Sunny rode the ocean, unsettling Sanji’s stomach. Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, the weight of emotional upheaval catching up at last.
When he awoke, sunlight streamed through the portholes set into the walls. Zoro was sawing logs in the bunk beside his, bare-chested, an arm thrown over his head in sleep. Sanji stared for a long moment, the pressure at his groin growing more insistent. His eyes traced the raised scar that bisected Zoro’s chest, wondering if it would feel as gnarled as his own.
Then Luffy’s head appeared, hanging upside down from the bunk above. His hair was a mess, his grin wide.
“I’m going to fish this morning, after breakfast. Do you want to join me?”
“I… don’t know how to fish,” Sanji admitted, though the invitation warmed something in him.
“That’s okay! I’ll teach you!”
Luffy leapt from the bunk, sending it swinging wildly on its chains. Sanji clung to the frame until it stilled again.
Once the motion stopped, he slid out of bed. He cast one last glance at Zoro before heading to the toilet beneath the stairs outside. His mind was slow to wake, but as he washed his hands, a simple, startling realization took hold.
He was still here. Still on the Sunny. Not in a cell. Not waiting for a beating.
A strange giddiness rushed over him. It was real.
He’d made it to the dawn of a new day – in a new place, surrounded by people who wanted him here. He was alive. Breathing. Still free. A laugh broke from his throat, raw and unused. For the first time, he realized he had a future. A whole life ahead of him, waiting to be lived.
“Good morning, Sanji,” Jinbe greeted when Sanji returned to the men’s quarters. “Breakfast is out in the galley.”
“What do you do for breakfast?” Sanji asked, genuinely curious. He dressed in the borrowed clothes from yesterday, a white long-sleeved shirt and black overalls, and began brushing his teeth. His new blue toothbrush stood in a caddy alongside a rainbow of others. Just seeing it there, lined up with the rest, quietly warmed him.
“Cereals, breads, and fruits,” Jinbe told him. “It’s informal. We’ve found that works best without a proper cook.” He smiled, toothy and kind. “Though it seems that’s about to change.”
Sanji felt good at Jinbe’s words, even if a little shy. “Eventually. Maybe.”
He brushed his teeth while Jinbe bustled about, gathering laundry. Zoro still snored in his bunk, undisturbed by the movement. Sanji met his own gaze in the mirror. His eyes were still dark and sunken in a too-thin face, but the corners had softened. There was something easier in his reflection, something lighter than yesterday.
He set his toothbrush back in the caddy, rinsed his mouth, and patted his lips dry with a towel. His gaze lingered on the uneven facial hair along his jaw, remembering Chopper’s comment from the day before.
“Do you know how to shave?” he asked Jinbe.
Jinbe laughed, low and amused. “Fish-Men have no need. Usopp would be the one to ask. I believe he shaves weekly.”
“I… I think Usopp is afraid of me,” Sanji said, hesitant.
“Usopp is afraid of his own nose,” Jinbe said warmly. “Give him a little time. Once he gets to know you, you two will get on like houses on fire.”
Houses on fire did not seem like a good thing. Still, Sanji would ask.
Usopp stood beside him in the bathroom at the top of the observatory, clutching a safety razor. The mirror reflected them both. The blade – a straight edge clamped between rounded guards – quivered with every breath, and Usopp’s wild-eyed expression did little to inspire confidence.
Sanji had asked him that morning while they were fishing with Luffy off the side rail, lines dangling over the sea.
“Sure,” Usopp had said, voice trembling. “I’d love to show a Vinsmoke how to wield a blade near my vital arteries. I go unto my death with aplomb.”
Sanji hadn’t been able to tell if he was joking or genuinely terrified. Luffy had simply thrown his head back laughing, slapping Usopp on the back so hard he nearly toppled into the water.
“Usopp is so brave!” Luffy cheered.
Now, they were in the outer room of the Sunny’s bath, a space separated from the shower area by a partition wall. The outer room held a toilet, sink, cubbies, and storage cabinets; the inner chamber, a tiled floor, shower, and deep tub. Usopp had been nervously rambling about his supposed barber lineage ever since they entered.
“Shaving,” Usopp declared, lifting the blade like a sacred relic, “is both an art and a science.”
He had started by trimming Sanji’s facial hair down, like Chopper had done with his hair, short enough that the blade wouldn’t catch or pull. Only then had he applied the warm lather, thick and fragrant, softening what remained.
“That cutting part’s only necessary if you let it grow out,” he explained.
He leaned in with the blade, hand trembling slightly as it hovered near Sanji’s lathered jawline and upper lip. “You’ve got to glide,” he said, voice pitched with a nervous warble, “not press. Around the curves and planes, smooth and steady. No nicks, no razor burn. Precision is everything.”
Sanji watched as Usopp set the blade to his cheek. In that moment, foresight flared behind Sanji’s eyes, sharp and clear: the blade dragging too fast, catching skin. Without thinking, Sanji jerked back.
“You were going to cut me,” he said flatly.
Usopp froze mid-motion. “W-What? No! Maybe. I mean – I’ll be careful!” He tried to smile. “Here’s the plan: I’ll do half your face. Just one side. Then you can finish the rest. That way you’ll know how it’s supposed to feel.”
Sanji hesitated.
Letting someone else touch his face – his skin – took more trust than he realized. But he reminded himself: this wasn’t Germa. No one here wanted to hurt him. Even if Usopp’s hands shook, his fear was genuine, not cruel.
He gave a short nod.
Usopp pressed the razor to his cheek again. This time, Sanji’s foresight didn’t react. The blade glided slowly, evenly. The rasp of hair being removed was surprisingly satisfying.
But as he rounded the jaw and approached Sanji’s neck, foresight surged again – another cut incoming.
Without hesitation, Sanji called the black armor over his skin. It rippled upward in time for the blade to tap harmlessly against it with a dull metallic clink.
Usopp stopped short, eyes wide. “You have armament haki?”
Sanji met his gaze in the mirror. “You were going to cut me again. I saw it.”
“Saw it?” Usopp’s mouth dropped open. “You have observation haki, too?!”
Sanji blinked. “If that means I can see things before they happen, then… yes.”
Usopp lit up. “I can use observation haki, too! Not the future-seeing part, but I can sense people from miles away. Through walls, even!”
“See through walls,” Sanji repeated, skeptical.
“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome.” Usopp tapped the floor with his heel. “If I concentrate, I can find everyone on the ship. See what they’re doing, where they are.”
“Um... okay,” Sanji said. It sounded like nonsense, but it seemed polite to go along with it.
“Here, let’s see if you can do it too. Since you’ve got foresight.” Usopp was animated now, the nervousness gone. “I pretend I’m lowering my targeting goggles, but in my head.”
Usopp set the razor down and lowered his goggles from his forehead. He flicked a tiny lens into place with a dramatic click. “Like that. Only imaginary.”
Sanji just stared. “I’ve never used targeting goggles.”
“No problem. Let’s fix that.” Without warning, Usopp yanked the goggles off his head and plopped them over Sanji’s. He adjusted the fit, lifting and lowering lenses like he was tuning an instrument. “See? The more you drop the lens, the clearer the focus. Try looking at the floor.”
The magnification made Sanji dizzy. He could see every grain in the wood, every thread in the bathmat. “What do you use these for?”
“I’m the ship’s sniper,” Usopp said proudly, chest puffed. “I can hit an enemy two miles away. The Straw Hats wouldn’t be where they are today without my amazing precision. My wanted poster calls me God Usopp for a reason.”
Sanji couldn’t tell if he was exaggerating, but it was impressive. “Do you use your haki to help you shoot?”
“Yeah! Like, if I need to find a hidden enemy or—” Usopp dropped his voice, “—check if I should avoid Franky’s workshop when he and Robin are having private time.”
Sanji didn’t know what that meant. But the “seeing through walls” part had stuck with him. “Do you think I could do it?”
“Why not?” Usopp motioned downward. “Just think about someone you want to find. Then lower the inner goggles. Mentally. Like – click.”
Sanji stared at the floor, trying to picture Luffy out on the lion figurehead where he’d gone after fishing. He imagined a lens dropping into place in his mind.
Nothing.
“It didn’t work.”
“Who were you trying to find?”
“Luffy.”
“Try someone else. Nami’s probably sunbathing. Chopper should be in the infirmary.” He pointed up. “Zoro’s probably up in the crow’s nest.”
Sanji’s gaze lifted to where Usopp pointed – and click. Something dropped into place. The next moment, he could see a Zoro-shaped silhouette upside down, doing handstand pushups in the tower above.
“I can see Zoro,” he murmured.
The name left his mouth and heat bloomed in his chest, curling down through his belly.
“That’s great!” Usopp cheered. “You really do have it!”
Sanji blinked and the image faded. The heat stayed.
Usopp picked up the razor again. With calmer hands and more confidence, he resumed shaving. “Okay, so when you do it yourself, just go with downward strokes. Don’t press too hard. Around the lips is the hardest. Barber Usopp’s trick is to stretch your mouth over your teeth like this—” He demonstrated with a silly grimace.
Sanji copied the motion. “Like this?”
“Perfect. You’ll avoid cutting your lip that way.” Usopp worked carefully, the blade scraping softly. “You’re a fast learner.”
Sanji watched his face in the mirror. “Is it normal to feel hot when you look at someone?”
Usopp paused, eyebrows rising. “You mean, think someone’s hot?”
“No. I mean... I feel hot. When I look at them. Like… inside.”
The razor froze against his neck. Usopp’s eyes widened, then a slow grin crept across his face. “Ohhh. Someone has a crush.”
Sanji blinked. “A what?”
“You’re attracted to someone,” Usopp explained. “Like Franky and Robin. Or me and Kaya.”
“Attracted how?” Sanji felt hopelessly behind. “Explain it to me like I’ve been locked in a cell for thirteen years.”
Usopp’s smile vanished, replaced by something soft and sad. His eyes welled up. “Shit, I didn’t realize…,” he muttered. Then he hugged Sanji, quick and tight. “Sorry,” he said with heartfelt sincerity before pulling away.
Sanji didn’t mind it. This hugging thing… it was growing on him.
Usopp cleared his throat. “Okay. Allow Captain Usopp to educate you on the Birds and the Bees.”
“I thought you were Barber Usopp.”
“I’m a man of many hats.”
He launched into a rambling lecture that had nothing to do with birds or bees, but did involve holding hands, kissing (“that’s when you press your lips together”), and eventually getting married and making babies. When he got to the “making babies” part, Usopp turned scarlet and shoved the razor into Sanji’s hands. “You do your side now.”
Sanji carefully used the razor on the still-lathered side of his face, taking his time, watching the foam and patchy hair disappear. His mind buzzed with more questions than answers after Usopp’s lecture, but at least now he knew the heat he felt was normal, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant. He’d probably have to ask someone else, or find a book that explained it better.
With Usopp praising his technique, Sanji finished shaving. His face looked cleaner, even if still gaunt, the skin marked with discoloration where thick callouses had formed from years beneath a helmet. After breakfast, Chopper gave him a cream and lip balm, and instructed him to apply it three times a day.
Sanji followed those directions now, and also smoothed aftershave across his skin. He glanced at his reflection and offered Usopp a crooked smile – his lips still not quite used to curving that way. “Thank you, Captain Barber Usopp.”
Usopp beamed, hand on his heart. “Anything for a friend.”
Walnut Grove was a large city surrounded on three sides by dense forest, black walnut trees stretching high like sentinels. The buildings scraped the sky, the noise was constant, and the crush of people made the streets feel claustrophobic. Sanji was pulled along by Nami’s firm grip on his wrist so he wouldn’t get lost during his first foray on land. Robin and Brook walked with them, tasked with helping Sanji find clothing and shoes of his own. He clomped awkwardly in Zoro’s spare boots, the soles worn soft at the edges.
The crew had scattered once the Sunny docked at the bustling port. Jinbe had secured the ship with quiet expertise before heading off with Chopper and Zoro to restock medical and food supplies. Usopp and Franky had gone off in search of parts and materials. Luffy vanished before the gangplank even touched the dock, with Nami screaming after him not to cause a revolution. With gold from Germa, there was more than enough to buy what they needed, including everything Sanji lacked.
It was still settling in: that he was a part of something. A crew. A home. In the few days they’d spent together, he could feel the beginnings of friendship taking root. Luffy was the easiest – radiating joy and heart, free with his feelings and his hugs. He made Sanji feel wanted, like he mattered, with a simple smile.
After the shaving session, Usopp had warmed up to him, including Sanji in everything from fixing a pipe to building new mechanisms, enthusiastically narrating every step. Chopper always checked on his health, offering vitamins or snacks or just a quick chat with a ready smile.
Jinbe was a calm, steady presence, quietly checking in throughout the day. Franky was louder and more physical, his booming laughter paired with backslaps that nearly knocked Sanji over. Brook had invited him to hear a new violin composition – the first music Sanji had ever heard. It moved him to tears.
He hadn’t spent much time with Nami or Robin yet, but both treated him like he already belonged.
Zoro, though – Zoro was the most elusive. He appeared at meals, sometimes found napping on the deck lawn, but rarely lingered. That suited Sanji just fine. The flare of heat that bloomed in his chest whenever Zoro came into view was disorienting, even if he didn’t catch the quiet way Zoro’s eyes sometimes darted to him, followed by the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Sanji didn’t mind the distance, for now.
The city was clogged with smoke and sound. People shouted over one another. Wheels clattered over cobblestones slick with brine. The scent of too many bodies pressed together mingled with roasting meat, engine oil, and the ever-present salt from the sea. Shops and street stalls shouted their wares in bold colors and brighter signage, while glass windows flashed sunlight like mirrors. The crowd surged and parted like a tide around them.
Nami led them into a men’s clothing store. The cool air and subdued quiet inside gave Sanji a moment to breathe. He hadn’t thought being outside could resemble being trapped in a cell, but this city was proving him wrong.
Circular racks and shelves displayed everything from casual wear to more tailored pieces. Headless mannequins wore crisp shirts and trousers. Faint music drifted from overhead. A few patrons browsed, and a worker moved among the racks, tidying. Fitting rooms were curtained off at the back. A clerk stood at the register by the door.
“Okay, Sanji,” Nami began, businesslike. “We’ll get stuff that fits you now. Later, when you’ve gained some weight, we’ll come back for more.” She grimaced. “I hate spending money, but I’m not letting you walk around in oversized crap just to save a few beli.”
“That’s… kind of you,” Sanji said, caught off guard. “I can make do with one set of clothes. And maybe a pair of pajamas.”
Nami turned and shot him a glare. “You’re not getting one set of clothes. You’re not frickin’ Zoro.”
“I believe our lovely navigator-san is saying that you need not be reserved,” Brook added, voice light. “We have the funds, and you deserve to wear whatever you’d like.”
Robin rested a soft hand on Sanji’s shoulder. “Brook is right. Find what you like, try it on, and we’ll go from there. You’re not being greedy, and no one here will think less of you for wanting something.”
Warmth rose up in Sanji, but so did a flutter of unease. Their kindness felt like sunlight on skin long kept in the dark. He was still walking on tenterhooks, afraid that the smallest misstep would snap the delicate bonds forming between him and the crew. The sheer number of possibilities overwhelmed him – choices, comforts, things he’d never been allowed to want before.
“If the ladies will permit the Gentleskeleton to take the lead,” Brook said with a slight bow. He offered Sanji his arm, cane draped over his other wrist. “I believe we should begin with the basics: boxers or briefs?”
Sanji hesitated, then took Brook’s arm and let himself be escorted deeper into the store. Nami and Robin peeled off, Nami muttering about stuffing Zoro into something new whether he liked it or not. Robin’s soft laughter followed them through the aisles.
Shopping with Brook involved a barrage of skeleton-related puns, color combinations loud enough that made Sanji’s eyes water, and a steady undercurrent of sincerity that let him breathe easier. Sanji picked out boxers with fish or sea creatures on them, trousers and jeans that fit his narrow waist, and a selection of t-shirts and button-downs in solid colors or slim pinstripes. Brook threw in a few floral numbers for good measure. Sanji found himself drawn to the dressier pieces after years of nothing but coarse, ragged fabric scraping his skin. One mannequin wore a subtly patterned vest over a crisp button-down – understated, but elegant – and Sanji lingered there, fingers brushing the fabric. Another mannequin sported a tie, which Brook helped him try, but the pressure at his throat felt too much like confinement. He took it off.
Brook presented him with a pair of pajamas printed with dancing skeletons and insisted on buying a matching set. Sanji also picked out several plain pairs, suitable for both hot and cold weather, and Brook tossed in enough socks to last him a month. All the while, Brook kept up a gentle stream of chatter, narrating the fashion quirks of the crew and easing Sanji’s nerves.
“Zoro-san, who won’t change his outfit unless physically coerced, once wore a skintight jumpsuit with a jacket over it.” Brook chuckled, guiding Sanji around a rack. “He complained about it crawling up his rear the entire time we were on Egghead. I believe he shredded it with his swords the moment he found an excuse.”
Sanji grinned at the image. “Does he always do things like that?”
“Oh yes, Zoro-san is a man of simple tastes,” Brook said as he helped Sanji carry his purchases to the counter. “He wants clothes he can move in, a place for his swords, and doesn’t care if they’re stained with blood. He likes drinking, training, and napping – in any order – and that’s Zoro in a nutshell.”
As they approached the counter, arms full of clothes, Sanji considered asking Brook more – about the feelings Usopp hadn’t been able to explain – but Nami and Robin returned, their arms piled high with clothes for the rest of the crew. Robin smiled at him warmly.
“It looks like your trip was a success,” she said.
“Yes,” Sanji said, his voice quieter than before. “Thank you.” A fragile shyness washed over him, an alien sensation, strange and unfamiliar, that had never touched him during the endless years of isolation and silence. Captivity hadn’t shown him any love, compassion, or kindness. The closest was pity from his sister. But this – being seen and cared for – felt like learning to breathe all over again.
Shoe shopping came next, made difficult by the misshapen state of his feet. For the first time in a long while, Sanji felt something like shame, tight and choking in his chest. He had grown used to the way his hands and feet looked, used to their warped shapes. They worked. That had always been enough. But now, with the others watching, the appearance of them seemed to matter in a way it hadn’t before.
Nami’s face tightened, anger threaded with sorrow in the corners of her eyes. Robin’s mouth was pressed into a thin, unreadable line. Brook launched into an exaggerated speech on the virtues of heels and platforms, his performance so absurd it pulled a strained laugh out of Sanji before the ache could settle too deep.
In the end, he left with sandals that didn’t rub, wide sneakers that fit his toes without pinching, and sturdy boots that disappeared beneath trouser cuffs.
The mood had dipped by then, an unspoken tension strung between them, so Nami declared, “We’re getting ice cream.”
“What’s that?” Sanji asked, honestly puzzled. It sounded like a type of drink.
That flash of angry-sorrow passed over Nami’s face again, sharp and quick – but then she grinned, wide and bright. “You’re going to love it.”
Sanji did love it.
Desserts weren’t part of Vinsmoke meals, even before the cell. Ice cream was foreign – soft, cold cream in unnatural colors, with flavors that ranged from delicate to overwhelming. It was drizzled in sauces like strawberry, chocolate and caramel, topped with crushed nuts, candies, or chunks of cake. It came in bowls, on edible cones, or swirled into drinks.
Nami bought him a bowl stacked with five different flavors, and the three Straw Hats let him try theirs, too. He liked the bite of mint, the depth of the salted caramel. His mind was already racing, thinking of ways to pair flavors, to use vanilla as a base for something wholly his own. He wondered how it was made, if he could replicate it.
Robin, like she could read his thoughts, quietly slipped back into the shop. She returned moments later and passed him a recipe card. “It would be nice to have ice cream on the ship,” she said.
Sanji clutched it with reverent fingers, eyes scanning the list, excitement welling up. “Will we need to buy everything on here?”
“We definitely will,” Nami said, and there was something bright in her voice, not urgency, but anticipation. Like she couldn’t wait to help make it happen, like this small joy of his was already hers, too.
They sprawled around the outdoor table for what felt like hours, tossing around recipes and favorite flavors, teasing ideas and plans. Every time Sanji spoke, someone leaned in, curious. They urged him to chase it – to cook, to experiment, to dream big. But there was no pressure behind their words. There were no expectations, no need to rush.
Nami explained their current meal routine – dinners rotated between crew, with breakfast and lunch set out buffet-style for whoever wandered through. “You can use the kitchen whenever you feel like it,” she said. “Just don’t let Luffy eat us clean. He’s a bottomless pit.”
Sanji nodded with a smile, heart full. He couldn’t wait to get back to the ship. His cookbook called to him, the one etched into memory, page by page. He couldn’t wait to begin.
Sanji stood in the kitchen side of the galley, his cookbook open before him, staring at it with a growing sense of frustration and dismay. He knew the recipe, knew the ingredients by name, but the instructions – the words like teaspoon, blend, dice, beat, brown, sauté – felt as foreign as a different language. The few times he had been allowed to cook in Germa’s kitchen as a child, there were no recipes, no helpers, just instinct. His mother loved whatever he made, though her aide always disliked what he brought. But now, faced with the task of following a recipe properly, to truly cook with his own hands, he felt lost.
He leaned his elbows on the prep counter, hands brushing the stubble on his head, fingers grazing the edges of the bandages covering his pressure sores. Dressed in one of his new outfits – jeans, a blue button-down, and sneakers – he was painfully aware of the unfamiliar comfort around him. The Sunny rested peacefully in Walnut Grove’s harbor, the rhythmic hammering of Franky’s repairs drifting through the open portholes.
The kitchen side of the galley held everything Sanji could need: a four-burner stovetop, a double oven, a large refrigerator, and an array of pots, pans, and cookware. He had the refrigerator code and the storeroom key. Nami had promised he could use anything he wanted; they had more than enough for him to experiment. Clutching his cookbook to his chest, Sanji stepped into the galley, ready for his first attempt at cooking.
But now, before he’d even begun, he was stuck. His chest tightened, and a painful ache settled there. Had this been a wasted dream? Had he wished for something he’d never truly be able to do?
The galley door swung open with a soft creak, and Jinbe stepped inside, an empty glass cradled in one massive hand. “Hello, Sanji,” he greeted, voice deep and mellow. He stopped short, eyes narrowing slightly when he saw Sanji leaning over the counter, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. “Is something troubling you?”
Sanji blew out a sharp breath through his nose and gestured to the open cookbook in front of him. “I wanted to try and make something… but I don’t understand it.”
“Ah.” Jinbe crossed the room in quiet, unhurried steps, the wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. He set the glass in the sink with a soft clink, then rounded the counter to stand beside Sanji. For someone so large, his presence was quietly calming. “Which part is giving you trouble?”
“These words,” Sanji said, pointing to the instructions. “They sound like they’re written for people who already know what they’re doing. What does sear mean? How do I preheat?” His voice cracked slightly, the tight knot in his chest twisted. “I thought I could just… do it. But maybe I’m not ready.”
“I see.” Jinbe’s voice held no judgment, only understanding. He walked to a cabinet near the refrigerator and opened it, revealing a row of cookbooks. “It’s important to you, isn’t it? That your first dish comes from that book.”
Sanji hadn’t considered it outright, but he nodded. Of course it was. The cookbook from Germa – the one he’d held onto for over a decade – felt sacred. The hard cover was faded, the edges frayed, the corners softened by time. He’d been eight when he asked for it, already imprisoned but still full of hope. They gave him this cookbook, and he’d turned it into a lifeline. It was the only piece of that place he’d held onto. Cooking from it felt like honoring the part of himself that had managed to survive.
Jinbe nodded, selecting a thick, dog-eared volume with a cracked spine. He placed it gently on the prep counter beside Sanji’s. The title read Introduction to Cooking.
“This book has all the definitions you need,” Jinbe said. “Everyone on the crew started with it. All except Zoro, who remains proudly useless in the kitchen.”
Sanji flipped it open, greeted by smudged pages and thumb-worn corners. A scrap of paper tucked between the leaves caught his eye. The handwriting was crude, all caps: RAMEN + EGG + RICE. He turned to that page and found the recipe. “Is this all he knows how to make?”
“Yes,” Jinbe said with a low chuckle. “When it’s his night, it’s egg and rice, ramen and rice, or ramen-egg and rice. Zoro’s love of rice is unmatched.”
“A simple man with simple tastes,” Sanji murmured, remembering Brook’s words.
Jinbe gave a soft hum of agreement, then turned to a drawer beneath the counter. He opened it and removed a set of metal measuring spoons linked on a ring, followed by a stack of measuring cups. The handles clicked together softly as he laid them beside Sanji’s cookbook. “These will help. Everything’s labeled.”
The tightness in Sanji’s chest began to loosen. He reached out and picked up the smallest spoon – ¼ tsp printed in tiny raised letters. He turned it between his fingers, letting the reality of it settle in. “Thank you.”
Jinbe glanced at him, warm and steady. “Would you like an assistant while you cook? Someone to read the steps while you do the work?”
The offer landed gently, without pressure. He felt wanted. Supported. Trusted.
Sanji nodded, throat tightening. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Jinbe’s smile was wide and genuine. He placed a hand briefly on Sanji’s back, solid and reassuring.
“Then let’s get started.”
“Sanji-kun!” Nami burst into the galley the day before they were set to leave Walnut Grove, Zoro trailing behind her with a mountain of supplies stacked high in his arms. Warm sunlight poured through the open door and a humid breeze carried the scent of citrus from Nami’s mikan trees.
“Got the ice cream supplies,” she announced brightly.
“Where do you want it?” Zoro asked, adjusting his grip to keep the tower from toppling.
“On the bartop. We’ll take it from there,” Nami instructed, already moving with purpose.
Sanji stood behind the prep counter in the galley, thumbing through Introduction to Cooking. His own cookbook was safely stashed beneath the mattress of his bunk in the men’s quarters, waiting for a future he could now envision. His first attempt at cooking with Jinbe had filled the galley with smoke, left the air reeking, and somehow made him laugh harder than he ever had in his entire life. What could’ve felt like failure, Jinbe had turned into celebration. His calm, grounding presence eased every creeping doubt.
“Every skilled person was once a beginner, too,” Jinbe had told him.
Zoro stomped in and set the packages on the bar with a thump, making Sanji’s cheeks go hot. Sanji flustered, avoiding eye contact, but Zoro’s gaze skimmed over him with a flicker of something unreadable before he – blessedly – left without a word.
Nami clapped her hands together, eyes gleaming. She rounded the counter and joined Sanji on the kitchen side, already tugging contents from bags and boxes.
“Let’s make some ice cream!” she declared with the sort of cheerful authority Sanji was quickly learning to recognize.
“Now?” Sanji blinked.
“Of course now! I want to see if we can actually pull it off.” She grinned at him, mischievous and excited. “You in?”
Sanji nodded immediately, closing the cookbook with a snap. “Let me get the recipe. It’s in my locker.”
“Okay. Hurry!”
Sanji hurried, and when he returned, he and Nami dove into making ice cream – and into making a mess. He kept one eye on the definitions in Introduction to Cooking as they combined, warmed, and whisked. When the base had to chill, they found themselves talking about everything and nothing: how his new shoes fit, how a log pose worked. Nami told him about her dream: to chart a map of the world so precise, it could never be questioned. Luffy’s wild detours, she said, helped her discover islands no one else had ever recorded.
“Right now we’re hunting the last Road Poneglyph,” she explained, arms folded and eyes bright. “Supposedly, it’ll point the way to the One Piece and Luffy’s dream of becoming the Pirate King.” She glanced sideways at him, her voice softening. “We’re still looking for the man with the scar and the black boat, so we’re traveling randomly and seeking out information. That’s how we found Germa. And picked up two great treasures: more gold than I’ve ever seen… and you.”
She nudged his shoulder as she said it. Sanji froze, heart squeezing so tight it hurt. His throat went thick. His eyes stung. He didn’t understand how something like this – something so kind and easy – could be real.
“It’s time!” Nami said when she checked the clock, rolling up her sleeves. “Ice cream’s ready to churn.”
They moved in sync as they poured the chilled mixture into the machine, laughter mixing with the soft hum of the churn. Sanji watched Nami’s hands as she adjusted the settings, her movements confident and relaxed, and something in his chest unwound. This – this shared task, full of laughter and light – felt like something he’d never dared to believe he could have. He didn’t know why they’d made space for him, but he was glad they’d allowed him to stay.
The ice cream thickened slowly, and with it, the warmth in his chest spread – sweet, soft, and real.
Sanji was in the galley again, his new haunt where he practiced and tried to learn how to cook, working recipe by recipe through Introduction to Cooking. He’d memorized most of the definitions by now, which made him feel more confident at the stove. He still made smoke, still burned things or ended up with something tasteless or overdone, but he worked between mealtimes, and if it wasn’t too bad, he asked others to try it. The food waste made him feel guilty, but Franky just tossed most of it in the compost bin and declared, “The worms’ll eat hearty!”
It had been three weeks since they’d left Walnut Grove, sailing open sea. They were tacking at an angle from their next log pose destination, exploring what lay between. Sanji had grown more confident – in himself, in his freedom, and in his friendships with the crew. Even Zoro, who still made him hot and flustered, but who was always willing to taste-test or haul things up from storage.
The weather was balmy, the sun casting dust motes through the open portholes in the galley. Outside, he could hear the squawk of a News Coo and Franky’s laughter. He was thinking about trying bread next. It took more effort – there was kneading involved. The definition was under his finger: To press something, especially a mixture for making bread, firmly and repeatedly with the hands and fingers until the dough was smooth. He wasn’t sure if his hands could manage it, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried.
The galley door banged open. Sanji glanced up just as Zoro thumped inside. Heat climbed Sanji’s neck beneath his black t-shirt. The familiar jolt of attraction was welcome and still flustering. He’d seen other men built like Zoro back on Walnut Grove during their week at the island city, but none of them had affected him like this. No one else had, either. But he hadn’t asked for clarification on what Usopp told him, not ready to address it yet.
Zoro was shirtless, as usual. His trousers rode low on his hips, weighed down by his swords. Sometimes he wore the green haramaki that had seen better days; other times, his stomach was bare. His face was always slightly scowled, but that didn’t mean he was angry – it was just his default, like the shirtlessness and swords.
That scowl turned on Sanji. “Thought I’d find you in here,” Zoro said, puffing a breath between his lips. He clomped into the kitchen, stepping into Sanji’s space. “What good is leaving one cell if you’re just locking yourself in another?”
Sanji blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always in here.” Zoro gestured around the galley. “It’s not good for you.”
“But I... I’m enjoying myself,” Sanji said, brows pulling together. “I want to learn how to cook.”
“Fine,” Zoro allowed, “but there’s more to life than that.” He latched onto Sanji’s wrist and dragged him toward the door. “Like naps in the sunshine. Surrounded by your friends.”
Sanji’s feet followed without resistance, wondering if this could count as holding hands. “I’m not tired.”
“Doesn’t matter. Enjoy the sunny day.”
He led Sanji down the steps to the main deck and tugged him none-too-gently onto the soft lawn.
The rest of the crew were there. Luffy, Chopper, and Usopp lay in a sleeping pile beneath the leafy arch of a tree. Brook sat against the trunk, pencil scratching away in a notebook. Robin was lounging in a chair with a book, and Nami lay sunning herself on a towel. Jinbe and Franky sat at the rail, chatting quietly, fishing lines draped lazily into the sea.
Zoro sprawled on his back, pillowing his hands behind his head and shutting his eye. The sunlight lit the ridges of his muscles and made his tanned skin glow. Sanji’s hands itched to touch, but he kept them still, pretending not to notice how often Zoro’s gaze flickered toward him. He flexed his warped fingers, then purposefully lay down beside him. The tree’s shadow gave them just enough shade to see the sky clearly.
Fluffy clouds drifted across the blue. A breeze cooled the air. The salty tang of the sea filled Sanji’s lungs. Peace settled over him like a warm blanket, and he relaxed into the grass. He mimicked Zoro’s pose, folding his hands behind his head, and found it surprisingly comfortable.
“What do you see?” Zoro murmured, drawing Sanji’s attention. “In the clouds?”
“Am I supposed to see something?” Sanji asked, eyes scanning the sky for whatever he might’ve missed.
“The shapes,” Zoro said, opening his eye to look up. “Like that one there.” He lifted a hand and pointed. “Looks like a horse.”
Sanji followed his gesture. “It looks like a cloud.”
Zoro scoffed. “Use your imagination, dumbass.”
Sanji huffed, but looked again. He supposed it did look like a horse. “Is there a purpose to this?”
“Does it need one?” Zoro shrugged without lifting his arms. “It’s fun. Just try.”
Sanji gave the sky another serious look, focusing this time on edges and gaps. To his surprise, he found one that looked like a swan, its long neck bent gracefully.
“There’s a swan,” he said, pointing.
Zoro’s grin was slow and approving, his eyes softening for just a moment as they flicked from the clouds back to Sanji. “So it is. What about the one next to it?”
Sanji tilted his head. “Maybe... a flower? That part could be a pot.”
“Or Luffy in his hat.”
Sanji squinted. “I think only having one eye is ruining your perception.”
Zoro burst into laughter, a loud, rusty sound that tickled down Sanji’s spine. He glanced sideways at Sanji again, just for a second, before his face settled into a rare, easy smile. “You’re alright, curly.”
Sanji didn’t know why those words pleased him so much, but they left his chest warm and his mouth wanting to smile.
An explosion rocked the Sunny, sending Sanji stumbling into the counter. Soup sloshed from the pot, splattering across the tiled floor and soaking his boots and trouser hems. His heart lurched, breath catching sharp in his throat.
Usopp burst into the galley, eyes wide. “We’re under attack!”
“What? By who?” Fear slammed into Sanji. He dumped the pot into the sink.
“Pirates,” Usopp yanked open a cabinet, grabbed a cast iron pan, and shoved it into Sanji’s hands. “Use this. And armament haki. Try not to die.”
Terror coated Sanji’s tongue like ash. He hadn’t seen this coming – but that meant he wasn’t in danger yet. He coated his body in black armor, visible from head to toe. These weren’t his brothers who’d come to beat him. The Sunny was under siege.
“What do I do?” he asked, running after Usopp.
“Stick near Nami. Hit anything that gets close.”
The deck was chaos. Pirates in dramatic black clothes and capes clashed with the Straw Hats. A ship loomed beside them, dark sails flying a fanged Jolly Roger, red as blood. Cannonfire thundered at point-blank range. Ropes and grapples crisscrossed the air as enemies swarmed aboard.
Usopp squeaked and bolted across the lawn deck, scaling the rigging. Sanji spotted Nami at the helm and sprinted toward her. She wielded her weapon like a pro, shouting orders at a floating, stormy cloud above the ship.
Sanji’s heart pounded. Sweat slicked his back. He scanned the deck: Franky launched shoulder rockets, Chopper – transformed with massive horns – gored enemies by the stairs. Brook danced through pirates, blade freezing every foe it touched. Robin’s hands bloomed from wood and flesh, breaking bones and choking necks.
Luffy, Zoro, and Jinbe had already boarded the enemy ship. Zoro’s blades flashed with deadly rhythm. Jinbe’s karate sent bodies flying. Luffy’s fists stretched and slammed, erratic and devastating.
Sanji gripped his cast iron pan in both trembling hands, his haki-coated body a match in color. He saw the pirate’s attack before it happened, and swung preemptively – pan meeting jaw with a clang!
More enemies charged up the helm deck. Sanji dodged and struck, guarding Nami’s flank. His foresight guided him; haki kept him safe. His blood pounded with adrenaline and dread. Some pirates broke through, but their attacks skidded off his armor. He stayed upright.
The noise was deafening – battle cries, screams, cannonfire. Blood slicked the wood and grass. From the rigging, Usopp’s Kabuto blasted pellets that exploded on impact. Sanji’s breath came fast, body shaking, pan ringing with each strike. It was madness. Brutality. A fight to survive.
Then – the enemy ship groaned. A crack split its hull as it began to sink. The tide had turned. Nami’s storm cloud zapped flaming holes in its sails. Luffy’s giant black fist launched a monstrous ogre skyward.
Franky rushed to the helm, steering the Sunny away. Brook severed tether lines. Chopper shoved bodies off the deck. Jinbe kicked loose lifeboats on the enemy ship, dove into the water, and threw the injured in.
Luffy catapulted back, arm curled around Zoro’s waist. Zoro’s chest was bloodied, face gashed. Chopper’s fur was matted. Robin moved stiffly, bruises blooming.
The Sunny sailed free. Behind them, the enemy ship burned, groaned, and vanished beneath the waves.
Sanji lowered the pan. His arms ached. Knees trembled. He slumped onto the bench beside the helm, armor dissipating. Breath shuddered from his chest. He’d survived his first real pirate battle.
Nami secured her weapon at her back, then reached to steady him. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
Sanji shook his head, rasping, “I’m okay.” The words barely made sense. “Just…” He trailed off.
Nami nodded, as if she understood. Her lips curved faintly. “I’m ‘just,’ too.” She nudged his arm. “Nice work with the frying pan.”
Sanji smiled, a little unsteadily.
Franky locked the tiller and headed below to inspect the damage. Jinbe climbed back on board. Nami guided Sanji down to the deck, where Chopper wrangled Zoro toward the infirmary.
“I’m fine,” Zoro grunted, blood oozing. His gaze flicked to Sanji and held just a fraction too long. “You good, curly?”
Sanji nodded, throat dry. “I’m okay.”
What looked like pride – or something warmer – glinted in Zoro’s eye before Chopper scolded him again.
“My flank hurts and I’m not in the mood to fight you!” Chopper shouted. “Get in the infirmary!”
Zoro sighed and trudged away, yanking off his bandana. As he passed, Sanji caught a quick, lingering look – quiet, unspoken, like he didn’t want to leave.
Chopper turned to Sanji and Nami, worry etched on his face. “Any injuries?”
“No, we’re fine,” Nami said. “Sanji-kun kept me safe.”
“If either of you is hiding wounds, I’ll be cross,” Chopper warned, then followed Zoro, waving Robin along.
Sanji’s legs wouldn’t stop trembling. Around him, the crew looked… energized. Buzzing. Victorious.
“Is it always like that?” he asked, wary.
“That?” Brook blinked. “That was easy.”
“Only two Devil Fruit users. Weak ones,” Jinbe agreed.
“Shishishi! I didn’t even use all my gears!” Luffy chimed.
Sanji turned to Nami and Usopp, searching for confirmation.
“I didn’t chip a nail,” Nami said breezily.
“And I only need to change my underwear,” Usopp added. “Very tame fight.”
“Usually there’s more blood, screaming, and impossible odds,” Nami added.
Sanji gulped. “Oh.”
Luffy slapped him on the back. “Something to look forward to!” he cheered. “I’m gonna eat!”
He dashed toward the galley. “Oh no you don’t!” Nami chased after him. “You’re not raiding the kitchen!”
“I’ll find Franky, help with repairs,” Usopp said, peeling off.
“I’ll hose the deck,” Jinbe told Brook. “You take the mop?”
Brook bowed to Sanji. “Use cold water on the blood – it comes out easier.” Then the two left him alone.
Sanji looked down. Blood streaked his gray shirt, splattered his trousers. His own or someone else’s, he didn’t know. He didn’t feel injured, but he needed to change.
In the quarters, he stripped and pulled on clean clothes. He scrubbed at the blood on his old ones and cleaned his boots. He glanced at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were wide, face flushed. His cheeks no longer hollow. His lips, once cracked and dry, now stretched into a half-wild grin.
Then came the laugh. Hysterical, bubbling up from nowhere. He’d just fought pirates – on a pirate ship. With a frying pan.
His father would be livid.
Another laugh broke out of him, shaky and uncontained. Terror and absurdity spilled together. And this had been an easy fight.
Sanji wasn’t sure if that made him more terrified… or more excited.
His hands still shook, faintly. His muscles ached from tension and recoil. But he’d held his own.
They’d looked at him like he belonged.
Zoro asked if he was good. Nami leaned into him with soft praise. Brook nodded to him with that effortless dignity. Even Luffy – giddy, grinning Luffy – had slapped his back like he was just another straw in the hat.
The pan, the black armor, the way he moved… it wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t Vinsmoke. It was him.
And he’d survived. No – he’d protected. That meant something.
He met his own eyes in the mirror, breath still rough, but steadying.
A frying pan. He’d fought pirates with a frying pan.
Guess he was a cook, after all.
The next island they found was small – barely a blip on the horizon. Nami lit up with excitement; it wasn’t on any of her charts. As the Sunny drew near and dropped anchor, Franky ferried everyone ashore. The sun was high, the temperature hot, but a steady ocean breeze kept the heat from feeling oppressive.
It was a perfect day for a beach party.
Golden sand stretched across the shoreline, lapped by foamy waves. Sandpipers darted through the surf, and the interior of the island teemed with ferns, tall grasses, and towering date palms. At the center bubbled a small spring, providing fresh water for the resident animals – bright birds, speckled cats, tiny rodents, and a swarm of insects and spiders.
Sanji wore a pair of Usopp’s shorts, the closest thing he had to swimwear. He’d put on a healthy amount of weight and muscle, enough to keep them snug on his hips. Chopper had slathered him in thick sunscreen and ordered, with firm authority, that he reapply it every two hours – more often if he swam. He’d also plunked a wide-brimmed hat on Sanji’s head. The sores were long healed now, and his hair had grown into longer spikes.
“Drink lots of water,” Chopper made him promise. “I don’t want you getting dehydrated or heat exhaustion.”
Zoro chopped down a few scraggly trees and dragged palm fronds onto the beach. As he moved, his gaze flicked a few times toward Sanji, who was adjusting the wide hat against the sun. The faint crease in Zoro’s brow didn’t go unnoticed by Sanji, though he couldn’t tell if it was worry or something else.
Franky built a bonfire frame, planning to light it after sunset. He manned the grill, too, flipping hamburgers while Usopp rigged a net between branches Jinbe had sunk into the sand.
Nami and Robin stretched out on beach towels, basking in the sun. Brook walked the shoreline collecting shells. Luffy’s excited whoops echoed from the trees, followed by the occasional crash. No one paid him any mind.
Usopp grabbed Sanji for a game involving a ball and the net. He landed on Jinbe’s team, facing off against Usopp and Zoro. Sanji had no idea what he was doing.
“If the ball comes toward you,” Jinbe advised, “try to hit it into the air.”
When it came to Sanji, the ball went anywhere but up. It hit the sand, the branch holding the net, knocked over the waiting bonfire, smacked Jinbe’s thigh, and bounced off Nami’s backside.
“Hey!” she yelped, glaring.
Zoro and Usopp were doubled over laughing, and Jinbe heartily guffawed. Sanji smiled ruefully and jogged after the ball, catching a glimpse of Zoro’s dark eye lingering on him a moment longer than usual before Zoro turned away, hiding a small, almost imperceptible smile.
But it was fun. Everything about it, because Zoro kept sending soft, encouraging hits toward Sanji. Jinbe and Usopp cheered him on. They were trying to teach him the game, not embarrass him. It didn’t matter how many times the ball went wild or how often Sanji tripped on his own bare feet. His laughter, still rusty from disuse, blended with that of his friends.
“Burgers are ready!” Franky shouted, ending the game.
Brook returned with a bag full of colorful shells. Luffy crashed out of the jungle with a cry of, “I smell meat!” Franky passed out plates piled high with burgers, chips, and baked beans. They sank into the soft sand to eat.
Conversation was easy, full of lightness and camaraderie. Afterward, Robin helped clean up, and Jinbe took the non-swimmers for a dip. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, Sanji accompanied Franky and Chopper to the spring. He found it fascinating, until he spotted the bugs and backed off with a grimace.
At dusk, Franky lit the bonfire. Orange flames licked the air, casting dancing shadows across the sand. The scent of salt, sunshine, and sunscreen filled the air. Someone tapped a keg, and mugs of beer were passed around. Sanji took a sip, immediately sputtered, and coughed. “It tastes like piss,” he muttered, nose wrinkled.
Zoro dropped down beside him in the sand, swigging from his own mug. With a crooked grin, he took Sanji’s and said, “More for me.”
“How can you drink that crap?”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
Sanji scoffed. “Why would you want to acquire it?”
Zoro furrowed his brow. “I guess I never thought about it.” He shrugged. “I just like it.”
Sanji watched Zoro’s throat work as he drank. His own mug sat untouched in the sand. Firelight flickered over Zoro’s bare skin – like Sanji, he wore only trunks, exposing thick muscles and battle scars. A fighter’s build, so different from Sanji’s own body, which bore the marks of tortured survival.
Zoro’s gaze drifted back to Sanji, settling a moment too long on his exposed arms and shoulders before snapping away.
Around them, conversation continued, punctuated by laughter or shouts. Brook struck up a melody on his violin, Franky joining in on his bright pink guitar. Sanji gazed toward the horizon. The last of the sun flared and dipped. He felt warm, accepted, at ease.
He stole another glance at Zoro, who lounged beside him with a sleepy, half-lidded eye, mug in hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The way Zoro’s gaze softened briefly when their eyes met made Sanji’s heart beat faster.
Without thinking, he blurted, “Do you want to hold my hand?”
Zoro blinked, surprise flickering across his face. Sanji felt nervous, a bubbling heat in his chest, but he didn’t look away.
Zoro flushed, the pink creeping up his cheeks. “Okay,” he muttered.
Sanji set his hand, palm up, in the sand between them. Zoro knocked back the rest of his beer, set the mug aside, and reached for him. His hand was large, solid, enveloping Sanji’s easily. Sanji noticed Zoro’s breathing had gone a little funny, and the flush had spread to his ears and neck.
The connection felt warm, right, sending a little tingle up Sanji’s spine.
“Do you know anything about the Birds and the Bees?” he asked.
Zoro sputtered, shifting awkwardly, turning an even deeper red – but he didn’t let go. “Enough,” he grunted.
Sanji smiled. “Good. Usopp lacked details. And at least one of us should know what it’s about. Besides the hand holding. And the kissing. And the marriage. And however you make babies.”
Zoro made a strangled sound and squeezed Sanji’s hand harder. With his free hand, he picked up Sanji’s untouched beer and downed it in one go.
Sanji chuckled. He still couldn’t believe Zoro could drink that swill.
Franky and Brook struck up a faster tune, and Luffy began grabbing people off the sand into wild, flailing spins. Laughter rang out. When he got to Zoro and Sanji, he pulled them both up into a dizzying three-person twirl. Zoro’s eye flicked to Sanji briefly, a quiet intensity there that Sanji caught and held onto. Sanji laughed, cheeks warming, moving without rhythm or grace, his hand still clasped warmly in Zoro’s.
Sanji squished the rice together as the instructions read, then placed it on the plate. It crumpled into a soft mound. He scooped and pressed again, shaping it into a more-or-less triangular form before poking a hole in the middle with his finger. He tucked a piece of fish inside, sealed the gap, and wrapped the seaweed around it.
Taking a step back, he surveyed his work. Three onigiri sat on the plate – lopsided, leaking rice, but inviting all the same.
He washed his hands, wiped them on a towel, and carried the plate outside. Tilting his head, he called up toward the open window of the crow’s nest. “Zoro! I made you something!”
Zoro’s head appeared, squinting against the sun. “Be right down!”
Sanji waited just outside the galley, the plate balanced carefully in his hands. The crew was scattered about the ship, lounging in the mild afternoon. The wind was steady, the sun warm, the sea breeze just crisp enough to hint at a shift in weather. An uncharted island waited on the horizon. They’d reach it by nightfall.
Zoro dropped down from the rigging with practiced ease, bare-chested and slick with sweat. The heat in Sanji’s belly still stirred at the sight, even after all these weeks. They’d kissed a few times – awkward, strange, and a little electric – but mostly they spent time side by side. Quiet and constant. Comfortable. Holding hands.
Zoro climbed the steps to Sanji and his face brightened as he caught sight of the plate. “You made onigiri.”
“You told me you liked them,” Sanji said, offering the plate. “I hope they’re okay.”
Zoro took one without hesitation. “You made it. Of course it’s okay.” Rice crumbled between his fingers as he took a bite, chewing with a pleased, slightly feral look in his eye.
Sanji doubted he’d get an honest critique – Zoro still thought ramen, egg, and rice made a decent meal – but that didn’t matter. What mattered was sharing it with him: the progress he’d made, and the memory of the day he got his freedom back.
Life aboard the Thousand Sunny wasn’t always easy, sailing with the future Pirate King and his crew. But Sanji had found his place and he’d thrived. He was becoming the ship’s true cook. He had friends. He had Zoro. He had truly learned to live again.
The flash came sudden and sharp – a jolt of foresight. A Fish-Man leaping from the waves, trident aimed straight for Sanji’s gut.
Black armor slid over his body before he fully registered the vision. “We’re about to be attacked by Fish-Men,” he said.
“FISH-MEN ATTACK!” Zoro bellowed, already moving. The crew scattered, weapons being drawn. He unsheathed a katana, grabbed another onigiri, and with a wicked grin, shoved it into his mouth.
Sanji barked a laugh and spun aside just as the first Fish-Man struck. He set the plate on the rail and drew the cast-iron pan from the harness strapped to his back – a gift from Usopp, built with care and pride.
The sky above was blue. The sea was wild.
And Sanji had a crew to protect.
End