Chapter Text
Zoro stood hovering in front of the fridge, a single, cold plate in his hand as he scanned his limited food supply for anything that could even remotely qualify as a meal. He was fresh out of eggs and bread, which meant he couldn’t make his usual haphazardly thrown together breakfast of a runny egg sandwich and, therefore, had to resort to whatever he had at hand. Which, to be fair, was what he had done most of the time before Mihawk had forced him to take cooking lessons with him.
Milk, donuts, noodles… Zoro paused for a moment, catching the edge of a blue tupperware container out of the corner of his eye. Probably left something in there. After setting his plate on the kitchen counter and pushing aside a few random bowls, he prised the container out and ripped off the lid to reveal two floppy pieces of pizza draped over each other.
Pizza…? Wasn’t the last time I had that when Luffy was over? Zoro stared blankly at the open fridge door, wondering when that had been. A long time ago, now that he thought about it. Maybe a few months ago…
Zoro lifted the container to his face and carefully sniffed its contents, being rewarded by a musty smell that clogged his nostrils. Eh, should be fine.
He dumped the pizza onto his plate, closing the fridge door and lazily sliding the empty container into the sink, where it found a home in the crack between a skillet and a plastic plate in his already mountainous pile of unwashed dishes. Maybe I should clean that up soon…
Zoro brushed the thought off and placed his plate in the microwave, silently tapping the numbers into the timer. He’d get to it later… or never. Both options worked.
Zoro sighed as he waited for his pizza to heat, breathing in the silence of the room. Early mornings may not always be his favourite, but they carried a sense of peace the rest of the day lacked. Something about that thin sliver of time that rested in the crack between night and the frenzied rush when everyone scrambled to get to work on time made him feel relaxed enough to start the day in a way that coffee or tea could never parallel.
Zoro felt particularly now that he needed to savour this quiet, since he had absolutely no idea how crazy his new roommate would be. Knowing Luffy, it’s probably a crackhead who eats soap or something. He hadn’t even really wanted a roommate, but the outrageous rent prices the landlord was pushing required desperate measures.
Zoro clicked his tongue, refusing to pursue another downward spiral of cursing that dastardly lady and turned back to the microwave, watching the lit-up numbers dwindle at an agonisingly slow pace.
Zoro slowed his breathing, letting the quiet hum of the outside world steal his thoughts. The sweet, airy tune of birdsong flowed over the tumbling wind, masking the slight rustle of tree leaves and the muffled movements of morning people. His eyes followed the movements of the sunlight seeping into his apartment, gradually dulling its shadows and tinging his furniture in a honey glow. It was - to put it simply - a slice of worldly heaven.
Then a shrill ring pierced his tranquility and just like that his mood soured instantly.
Damn it, didn’t I put my phone on silent?
Zoro turned to where he’d placed his phone, drumming his fingers in annoyance on the kitchen counter.
And anyway, who the fuck is calling me this early in the morning?
He slid his phone off the counter and tilted its glass face to the light and immediately scowled when he saw ghost girl flashing across his phone screen. Of course she has to call me at seven in the fucking morning. Sighing, he clicked to answer anyway, knowing he’d never escape her if he didn’t.
Zoro took his plate out of the microwave and picked up a slice of pizza - still cold, despite basking in radiation for two minutes - and turned back to his phone screen, the lag clearing to allow his eyes to be scorched by bright pink.
Perona swung her hair out of the way, fingers working carefully to push the strands into a long braid. She was sitting upright in her bed, squished between two mountains of plushies bordering her on both sides and drowning in an oversized sweater with ‘Paris Athletics Club’ emblazoned across the front.
‘Why didn’t you answer earlier, shithead? You left me waiting for, like, five seconds,’ Perona demanded, huffing. ‘Five seconds.’
Zoro rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore her question. The quicker he got this done with, the quicker he could go back to lazing off.
‘What do you want?’ He was too tired to force any edge into his words, instead focusing his energy into biting his floppy pizza.
‘Hmph. You’re so rude. And didn’t I tell you to ditch that stupid hoodie? It’s so not cute.’
Zoro frowned, looking down at his hoodie - a muted aqua with a simple turtle etched into the centre in white thread - and scoffed, completely dumbfounded as to what about it couldn’t be considered cute. And didn’t she pick this one out herself, too? Fucking bitch.
When she didn’t get a response from Zoro (who was too busy eating his breakfast), Perona let out a dramatic sigh and tied her braid together with a black hair band.
‘I want to go out shopping today and you have to come with me.’
Zoro frowned, raising an eyebrow at the camera. ‘Why?’
‘Because. I want to eat out and it would be lame to go by myself. Plus, I need someone to carry all my things.’ She pointed a finger at Zoro, then retracted it to examine her nails and let out an annoyed hiss. ‘Ugh, I need a manicure so bad.’
Zoro scoffed, biting into the pizza crust. She’s even worse than Nami. Does she really think I’m gonna go with her? He wasn’t going to spend his perfect Saturday carrying a million shopping bags for someone who hadn’t uttered a single word of gratitude in their lives.
‘No fucking way. Tell Mihawk to go with you instead.’
‘I did,’ Perona said, exasperated, ‘But he’s a grumpy loser and doesn’t want to go.’
‘Whatever. I’m still not going.’
‘Yes, you are, or I’ll ask Nami to double your debt.’
Zoro cursed his decision of ever introducing Perona to his friends. It hadn’t even been an intentional decision: Luffy and Nami had just happened to show up to their house uninvited. Of course, she and that tangerine witch had bonded over their mutual devilish tendencies and he had to pay the price.
Zoro had half a mind to still reject her, but bit back his response with a sigh. Honestly, he didn’t have any choice in the matter, not unless he wanted Nami to worsen his already crippling financial situation (of which Mihawk refused to assist him in).
‘Pick me up at eight, okay?’ Perona said, reaching offscreen for the shitty pink lip gloss she adored so much.
‘I hope you drown,’ Zoro hissed, stuffing his mouth with more pizza and nearly choking.
‘And I hope you get murdered,’ Perona replied in an impossibly sweet tone for her words. She paused to apply her lip gloss and then stuck out her tongue at Zoro before promptly ending the call.
Zoro stared at his black phone screen for a few more seconds, angrily chewing his pizza in silence. Stupid Perona. He hadn’t had any plans anyway, but whatever he could’ve done would’ve been way better than the task he was now forced to tolerate. Zoro bit into a limp olive lathered in cold cheese. Stupid microwave.
⚔⚔⚔
The morning chill clung to Sanji’s face as he stepped out of the bus, cheeks annoyingly pink. The wind bit at every exposed speck of his skin, like an angry hound let off its leash, and only helped to further sour Sanji’s mood. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, mentally cursing the weather and turned away from the bus stop to walk to the restaurant.
It was Saturday, it was cold, and realistically, he should’ve been packing up the rest of his belongings for when he had to move in tomorrow. He was about almost done, save for a few kitchen knives, clothes, and some rather odd trinkets he was too fond to leave behind. It was the perfect set-up, since Zeff would be at the restaurant the whole day long and Usopp had even offered to help if he needed it.
But no, I have to pick up an extra shift because stupid shit-geezer can’t even handle his new intern for a single day. Sanji let out an irritated hum, fumbling for the cigarette pack stashed in his pocket. Where the fuck is it? When his fingers grazed against cardboard, he pulled the tiny box out and slipped a cigarette between his teeth.
The relief was almost instantaneous, and Sanji let out a deep breath as he took in the sounds of the surrounding city. Though it was just around eight in the morning - quite early for most on summer break - there was a definite buzz as people stepped outside and wandered onto the beach for an early-morning swim.
Smoke trailed behind him, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears as he rounded the corner of the street, a definite indicator he was almost at his destination. At least there’s one thing good about this damned restaurant.
Sunlight poured over the crests of a dozen waves as they tumbled over the beach, white froth melting into the sand. The traffic was picking up as the poor bastards unfortunate enough to work on the weekend and people taking advantage of the last few days of summer break filled the road, but even so, Sanji could make out the silhouettes of a few people already out on the ocean, one person performing a surfboarding feat that seemed entirely inhuman. Lucky bastards.
Before Sanji could even continue to sulk about his miserable fate, the restaurant appeared in front of his eyes, its massive shadow looming over the car park. Sighing, he snuffed out his cigarette and tossed it into the bin in front of the door, walking around the building to the staff entrance at the back.
Sanji closed the door behind him as he entered, eyes falling across the kitchen. He was greeted by the faces of the dozen poor souls accompanying him today, each with varying degrees of annoyance colouring their expression. There were a few new faces in the crowd - most of them about his age - which meant they were likely poor uni students desperate for any opportunity to earn some cash. Though, out of all the faces he counted, none of them were Zeff’s.
‘Hey old geezer!’ Sanji called, too tired and under-caffeinated to glaze his words with even an ounce of respect. Some looked up from their current activities, distracted by the sudden shout, only to whip their heads back around under Sanji’s glare.
‘Oi, eggplant, shut it before my foot does it for you,’ Zeff yelled, slightly muffled. Yeah, so what? I’d kick your ass, old man. The head chef appeared after a moment’s silence from out of the main dining area, peg leg thumping dully on the floor while he balanced a pile of dishes in his rough hands.
‘I still don’t get why I have to come in on my off-day, shitbag,’ Sanji continued, completely ignoring Zeff, who scowled at him as he set down the empty plates.
‘Well, eggplant, Patty’s sick… and I don’t know where the fuck Carne is… we’re really short-staffed… and someone needs to train the new intern,’ Zeff explained, pausing in between to yell at his workers. Maybe that’s why you keep losing employees, shit-geezer.
Sanji sighed, taking his hands out of his pockets and donning one of the black aprons hung on the uniform hooks. He would still much rather be any place but here right now, but at least he could squeeze a bit of extra pay out of it.
‘Fine, I’ll train your intern.’ The poor bastard needs someone to show them the ropes. And if I don’t, the old geezer will probably yell at them the whole fucking day.
At the very least, Sanji hoped it was one of the new uni students his age, and a pretty one if his luck so graciously allowed it to happen (unlikely, but he could dream).
‘Oi, Henry, ya hear that? Eggplant’s gonna be your new teacher!’ Zeff barked, walking off to the other side of the kitchen to taste-test someone’s soup, motioning to one of the employees to open the restaurant.
As Sanji started washing his hands, a skinny man who looked just slightly younger than him suddenly appeared behind him, boasting a head of fiery auburn curls, hazel eyes and so many freckles that it made his cheeks look tanned. His arms hung loosely around his body like limp noodles and the black apron he was wearing, despite being the restaurant’s smallest size, ballooned around him.
‘Um, hi, Mr… uh, Sanji, sir,’ the man stammered, rubbing his hands like he was trying to start a fire, ‘I’m Henry, the intern. It’s a pressure to meet you! I mean, um, pleasure. Uh, sorry.’
Eh, seems nice enough. Not as handsome as he could’ve hoped, but a bit above average in his opinion. Plus, he wasn’t as bad-mouthed enough to make a sailor flush, unlike some of his coworkers.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m Sanji,’ Sanji replied, flashing his most charming smile. Henry nervously mirrored it, though his eyes kept flashing back and forth between something behind him. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Oh, umm, I may have accidentally…’ Henry trailed off, turning around. Sanji’s eyes fell across a wooden spatula lying on the floor behind him, covered in ribbons of twisting copper flames that were already gaining height and ground, crawling towards the cabinet doors. His coworkers were desperately moving around, trying to subdue the impending disaster which had apparently completely flown under Sanji’s radar (probably because he was too tired to give a fuck).
‘...lit a spatula on fire,’ Henry finished lamely.
Sanji sucked in a long, sharp breath.
This is going to be a long day.
⚔⚔⚔
Zoro had spent his entire day slaving away for Perona. Carrying her bags, waiting outside the salon for her, being forced to try on shitty clothes he had absolutely no interest in. He had spent an agonising amount of time on his feet, the pink-haired ghoul refusing to allow him even a second of rest while she lazed in various spots around the shopping mall, snacking on tiny cupcakes and sipping her extravagantly named Fairy Pink Sugar Iced Tea while he was rewarded with a single, dry biscuit at lunch. Honestly, I would’ve rather gone through fucking medieval torture.
Zoro sighed, clutching the steering wheel and glaring at the pile of shopping bags reflected in the glass that obscured his back seats from view. At the very least, he hadn’t had to pay for all the countless make-up items and jewellery Perona had bought on her half-hearted whims. She’s probably gonna throw ‘em away in two weeks, tops.
‘You’re going the wrong way, you idiot! It’s left. Turn LEFT!’ Perona shouted, interrupting his thoughts. She was flailing her arms around and nearly shoved her phone in Zoro’s face, who quickly dodged the sudden movement to keep his eyes on the road.
‘Alright, fine! Jeez, just shut up,’ Zoro snapped, rolling the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The narrow side road widened into three more lanes, a sudden blast of bright bar lights nearly blinding him.
‘Gosh, you can’t even go the right way even with a literal GPS,’ Perona complained, leaning back in the passenger seat and glancing in her mirror to check her hair. She frowned, twirling her fingers in her strawberry curls.
‘Fuck off. I have a great sense of direction,’ Zoro retorted, to which Perona shot him a look and rolled her eyes. What was that for? Jeez, why does everyone think I’m bad at navigating?
Zoro focused his attention back on driving, forcing himself to keep conscious control over the vehicle. It was surprisingly easy to zone out, but Zoro refused to give in to the temptation.
The number of cars increased steadily as he made his way onto the main road that snaked around the coast, harbouring expensive beach houses on one side and opening onto a crowded foreshore on the other, currently holding a concerning amount of people that looked like they were enjoying some sort of party. Perona let out an annoyed huff and Zoro groaned as the traffic suddenly slowed to a snail’s pace, because life fucking hates me, doesn’t it?
‘Oh my gosh, just hurry up already!’ Perona yelled at no-one in particular, gesturing furiously at the cars ahead of them. It was useless, and she probably knew that too, but at this point, Zoro could honestly say that he was empathising with her, to his extreme annoyance.
Why the fuck are there this many cars this late anyway? His question was immediately answered by a flashing billboard just up ahead that caught his eye, advertising a music festival that apparently happened annually on these shores. Of course. These shithead fans are blocking the whole damn road. He could never for the life of him understand the obsession over these damned musicians and probably never would.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. It was nearing twenty minutes and Zoro was ready to give in to the grip of sleep when the car in front of him suddenly jolted forward. Refusing to waste the opportunity, Zoro slammed on the accelerator and narrowly dodged a crossing pedestrian as he swerved into a nearby car park before Perona could even so much as nudge him to move.
‘Ow, shithead!’ Perona screeched, unlatching herself from the car window she had slammed against during the sudden movement, which, thankfully, wasn’t broken. ‘I could’ve died from that!’
‘Would’ve been better if you had,’ Zoro said, sticking out his tongue at her as he backed into a parking space (because that was a very mature thing to do).
‘Ugh, my make-up’s all ruined,’ Perona groaned, peering at her reflection in her compact mirror, ‘I need a trip to the bathroom to fix this up.’
Zoro rolled his eyes, stepping out of the car and being smacked in the face by the cold breeze. The restaurant loomed over the car park in front of them, framed by a garnet-red brick roof and what looked like a giant ornamental fish head hanging over the entrance in the most peculiar way, circled by bright blue LEDs that spelt out the word ‘Baratie’. So this was it. All I have to do is get through this shit and then I can finally go home and drink myself to sleep.
It wasn’t too bad, he supposed, being able to have a proper meal instead of scouring for leftovers in the back of his fridge.
‘Hey Zoro! Are you going to open the door for me or what?’ Right. That’s why I don’t want to be here.
Zoro bit back an insult and wrenched the door open for Perona, who thanked him with a simple hum of appreciation as she stepped out - more than what she usually offered, at least.
They walked towards the restaurant together - Perona shivering in her thin layers - and entered through the glass double doors into a cacophony of noise that made Zoro want to crawl into a ditch and cover his ears until it quieted. There were people in nearly every single corner of the restaurant, faces illuminated under the sharp, white lights, leaning against walls covered in paintings of ocean scenes and fighting soldiers. Stupid fucking music festival.
‘Here,’ Perona said unexpectedly, handing Zoro her card. Zoro blinked at it, raising it to his face and realising that it wasn’t actually even her card, but Mihawk’s. Of course she stole it from him.
‘Wait, why are you giving this to me?’ Zoro asked, watching Perona walk off in the other direction.
‘Didn’t I tell you I need to fix my make-up?’ Perona responded, ‘Just order me dessert and drinks, I don’t want anything heavy.’
‘Fuck off,’ Zoro said, but Perona had already disappeared into the crowd.
Zoro huffed, scanning the restaurant for any free tables. At least he didn’t have to deal with Perona until she came back, which was probably going to be a century after he was dead and buried. Unfortunately, that left him alone amid all these strangers and way too much noise for his tired arse to handle. Well, worth it for free dinner.
⚔⚔⚔
Sanji was hanging on to his sanity by a thread that was fraying every second he spent interacting with a customer, however polite they may be. It was half past seven and he had been forced to endure countless demands spreading himself out way too thin to attend to the needs of his bewildered new coworkers who wouldn’t know how to boil water if the instructions were right in front of them. Lucky bastards. There’s no way that shit-geezer would’ve let me work in his kitchen if I was as fucking incompetent as them.
On top of that, he had spent nearly four hours as a temporary waiter when he should’ve been in the kitchen preparing the dishes he was now carrying out. He didn’t even know how the hell he had ended up waiting tables; Zeff had spouted some bullshit about how they didn’t have enough waiters and that he was the perfect fit for some reason he hadn’t even finished. Sanji hadn’t even been able to show Henry how to properly poach an egg before suddenly being kicked out of the kitchen. Shit-geezer just doesn’t want me showing him up.
‘Medium-rare steak and Caesar salad for table four!’ Sanji yelled into the kitchen, earning the hiss of oil hitting the pan in place of a reply. Though it was expected, he let out an annoyed huff, probably due to his crumbling patience with having to spend a perfect Saturday attending to the needs of impatient customers. Fuck, I need a smoke so bad.
Sanji sighed, straightening his back and stilling his face into a neutral expression since he couldn’t force the ends of his mouth to curve even slightly. He was so tired he could drop down on the floor right that second, but refused to give in to the enticing lull of sleep, bottling his annoyance in the deepest depths of his heart and lifting his eyes back to the crowd.
The amount of people in the restaurant - to Sanji’s greatest grievances - had been steadily increasing over the past hour, to the point where they were having to delay entries and request customers to order take-out instead. Probably ‘cause of that shitty music festival nearby.
On one hand, it drove business since many of the attendees weren’t satisfied with their overpriced nachos and room-temperature beers. On the other hand, he had to deal with music-rotted fans who seemed completely oblivious to the fact that it took more than half a minute to prepare their hefty orders. Common sense ain’t so common, is it?
That’s when Sanji’s eyes fell on a man moving across the room, probably seeking the opportunity to claim an empty table tucked into a less well-kept corner of the dining area, bathed in shadows under a broken light they still needed to fix. It was probably the most intriguing thing he had seen all day, and he had witnessed a forty-year-old man walk in without a shirt and Spongebob shorts while wearing a brown top hat. What caught his eye about the man wasn’t that he was willingly choosing to sit in one of the dirtiest tables they had - it was the fact that his hair was fucking green of all colours, mimicking a plant if its roots were hidden in loose trousers and a black leather jacket boasting multiple rips across the sleeves. Like some sort of damn… mosshead.
Probably another one of those crazy concert-goers. Sighing, Sanji made his way over to the table as per the irritating obligations of a waiter, while the man occupied one of the seats. At least I can look at this freak. Looks like the type to get mad easily.
Sanji slipped past the scattered rush of people hurrying out of their seats, at a pace entirely too sluggish for his liking. Unfortunately, the lack of rest was starting to catch up to him.
Sanji squeezed in between a pair of pink-haired women murmuring about the start of a concert. Probably why everyone’s leaving so early.
His eyes fell across the tables as they left, and immediately felt his still face dissolve into pure, unfiltered rage. Damned shitheads, can’t even finish their fucking food. Half-full bowls, plates and lazily thrown cutlery competed for spots on the crowded tables. The sight made his heart burn, but he forced the feelings down. I’ll just give ‘em all to Luffy. He wouldn’t mind leftovers; Sanji was quite sure he’d eat the dirt he walked on if someone told him it was edible.
All of the sudden, Sanji stepped forward and the crowd vanished completely, the sounds of the restaurant suddenly muffling as he neared the table, providing a stranger atmosphere than what he had bargained for.
There was a singular window near the table, casting a slanted glow from the street light directly outside that fell across the man’s face, illuminating a thin, vertical scar that stretched across the place where his left eye should’ve been. What the fuck…?
How would somebody even get a scar like that? Is this bastard some sort of secret underground crime boss or something? Sanji glanced back at him. Definitely got the look for it.
‘Hey, waiter,’ the man said in a rough voice, jolting Sanji out of his thoughts. His face was tilted to the side so he could see him, light glinting off three golden earrings that danced against the side of his neck. His single eye was narrowed thinly in a way that made Sanji immediately defensive, despite the man not having shown any real sign of hostility yet.
‘Aren’t you gonna ask me for my order?’ he asked, arms folded across his chest.
Oh. Right. Sanji had been too absorbed in this green-haired oddity to even think about his duties as a waiter. Awkwardly clearing his throat, Sanji opened his mouth to speak when the man suddenly continued.
‘Can’t this restaurant hire any damn electricians? Are you guys too damn poor to even fix a broken light?’
Do you think that’s my fucking fault?
‘We’ve been informed that it will take them a while to find the proper replacement,’ Sanji answered mechanically, the same rehearsed response he had delivered to the countless other customers who had asked him the exact same question, fighting to keep the seethed undertone out of it. Stupid mafia boss is already getting on my nerves.
‘Proper replacement my ass. Your boss is probably just too fucking lazy, snail-brows.’ He rolled his eye, scoffing with an air of pure arrogance that made Sanji’s blood boil.
‘The fuck did you say about the old geezer?’ The words slipped out of his tongue before he could’ve even stopped them, too overworked to even notice half the things happening around him.
The man raised an eyebrow at him, mouth twisted into a scowl that coloured his whole face with both irritation and a threat.
‘Jeez, didn’t know this place had such shitty waiters. No wonder everyone’s leaving.’ The man scoffed, suddenly kicking his chair back and rising to his feet. ‘Might join ‘em honestly.’
‘Why don’t you, jackass?’ Sanji hissed, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He shoved them into his pockets, drawing out a shaky breath as he fixed the man’s singular eye with a steely glare.
‘Maybe I will, you shitty waiter. Better for my own sanity to leave this hellish place.’
But Sanji couldn’t take it anymore. All the hours of exhaustion, having to deal with shitty customers and shitty coworkers alike, and pent-up frustration carefully caged behind a thin veil of endurance came crashing down like a waterfall. No stranger gets to fucking say that to my face, especially some random mafia cunt.
‘Do you want to say that again, you green-haired cyclops?’ Sanji hissed, voice dangerously low. The man lurched backwards as Sanji suddenly grabbed his shirt, fingers curling around the soft fabric.
‘Get your filthy hands off me, jackass,’ the man said immediately, arms moving way too fast for a normal person to shove Sanji into a nearby table, which toppled over behind him, glass shattering over the floor. Sanji felt his fingers sting with slight yet undeniable pain, but his brain was rushing with murderous thoughts, oblivious to the instant attraction their fight had suddenly gained.
Sanji straightened himself with perfect grace despite the situation, leg already aloft as it swung through the air, a kick aimed directly at the man’s head, who was already moving to dodge. Clearly got some skill then.
He changed tactics, lowering his leg in order to catch the man mid-dodge, but it was almost as if he anticipated it, sandwiching Sanji’s leg between his hands and attempting to yank him off-balance-
‘OI EGGPLANT!’ The yell sliced through the commotion with little effort; Sanji stopped dead in his tracks and the man instantly dropped his arms in defeat.
That was when Sanji noticed the crowd gathered around them, most of them concert-goers trapped midway to the door. Some had their phones out recording the entire interaction, and others were murmuring in low voices to each other, occasionally pointing at the two standing uselessly in the spotlight of the attention.
Shit.
Sanji hadn’t noticed the crowd that had gathered around them in the split-second since he had nearly attacked the man.
Of course you had to fuck up right at the end of your damn shift. Oh, and who the hell knows how many of these shitheads are streaming? Sanji scratched the back of his neck, stewing in shame as he glared at the glass shards surrounding his feet. Of course the bastard pushed me into the temporary table.
Footsteps suddenly reached Sanji’s ears and he looked up to see Zeff threading his way through the squished bodies, pulling himself into the circular clearing surrounding the cornered duo.
‘Back room. Now.’ Sanji nodded meekly, too embarrassed to even argue.
‘And you-’ The green-haired man lifted his head to glare at Zeff, who mirrored the hostility while he struggled for the proper words to address him.
‘Get out of my damn restaurant, punk. You’re banned.’ The man scoffed, raising a middle finger in the general direction of Zeff and Sanji, which only made Sanji even more inclined to kick him in the face. Shitty mosshead.
The man glared at the crowd as he pushed his way through, only increasing the amount of whispers that, from the sheer amount of people, was enough to amount to the noise of a stampede.
‘That goes for you folks too,’ Zeff added, glaring at the crowd, which, at the very least, was smart enough to take a hint and quickly resumed to their earlier objective of attending their concert.
As he and Zeff navigated through the tail of the crowd to the back room, Sanji couldn’t help but revel at how badly he had fucked up.
⚔⚔⚔
‘Oh my GOSH, I still can’t believe you got us kicked out of the restaurant!’ Perona hissed, tapping her foot in annoyance on the stone steps of her apartment building.
She and Zoro were standing under a curved streetlamp on a now temporarily abandoned road, bathed under flickering ivory light as Zoro hauled her massive shopping collection out of his back seats, Perona refusing to lend a finger, let alone a hand. The stars blinked above them, a thin sliver of a crescent peeking out from behind a cloud the only indicator of the moon’s presence as it gazed at the siblings below.
Zoro sighed and set down a carved vase on the footpath, feeling his muscles ache from overexertion. All his senses were still on edge after being caught off-guard by that dumbass blonde waiter. Seriously, what was that guy’s problem?
‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not my fucking fault that waiter attacked me!’ Zoro responded, pausing for a beat to relax his muscles. Perona scoffed and rolled her eyes, focusing her attention to her nails which she idly picked at as Zoro went to pull the last few bags out of the car.
As soon as he set the last shoebox down, Zoro felt all his strength leave his body. That was probably the part that annoyed him the most out of the whole interaction - the fact that Zoro had actually needed to use his strength at all. It was a waiter, of all people, who had sent all Zoro’s thoughts into overdrive; a waiter who had almost succeeded in delivering one of the fastest kicks Zoro had ever seen. And he had felt the muscle in the waiter’s leg he’d caught. That type of muscle didn’t come from regular ass gym workouts - it was the result of probably years of dedication, time, and effort all focused into honing the power in that kick. Bastard probably never skips leg day.
Zoro chuckled to himself - which made Perona look up at him like he was crazy - and then started walking around the car to the driver’s seat.
‘Wait, hold on, aren’t you going to carry these up to my floor?’ Perona asked, suddenly aware of the situation. She glanced frantically to and from the dozens of products and Zoro’s retreating silhouette outlined in shadow.
‘Nah, I’m out. Deal with it yourself, Perona,’ Zoro replied simply, sliding into his seat and shutting the door behind him to drown out Perona’s whining.
Then Zoro immediately felt a prick of guilt after looking at her face through his tinted window, mimicking a cat that had been drenched in rain. I mean, I’ve come this far. It’d be stupid to just ditch her now. Sighing, Zoro was about to leave his car again when Perona pulled out her phone, tapping silently at the glass screen.
In a matter of milliseconds a brown-haired man wearing nothing but a worn pyjama shirt that hung just low enough to cover his underpants - though Zoro could see the edges of a frog print on fraying white fabric. Perona tilted her face to the man, flashing a smile and talking to him for a brief moment as the man vigorously nodded, then bent to his knees to pick up the vase Zoro had left on the cobblestone, smiling sweetly at Perona as he made his way to up the steps.
Zoro sighed, rolling his eye and looking back at the road. Of course she has all her neighbours wrapped around her finger. Probably bribed ‘em. He briefly wondered how much of a dent that was making in Mihawk’s wallet as he backed out of the parking space, tyres rolling onto the empty road.
Zoro drove through the empty streets. There weren’t many people out now, though he could see a few lights on where the residents hadn’t pulled their curtains closed. His eyes flicked to the display on his car screen - four bright digits flashing 10:02. Damn, were we really out that long? Most of the day was muddled into a long stretch of running around after Perona, having to choose between outfits for her (even though his choices were ultimately rejected because he didn’t bear an ounce of fashion sense in his veins) and that shitty fight with that shitty waiter.
Zoro’s mind wandered back to the restaurant, letting out a sigh as he turned into a narrow side road that led to his apartment complex. The scene replayed in his head, each detail repeated under his mind’s spotlight. Talking to the man… shoving him into a table…
The guilt set in all at once.
Fuck.
He had said all that stupid, stupid shit to that waiter because he was an absolute arse who couldn’t hold his tongue and he had nearly thrown him to the ground and was prepared to fight him for doing… what, nothing at all?
Fuck.
Zoro wanted to slam his head on the steering wheel so he could rattle sense into his brain.
What the fuck was I thinking, saying all that to a rando I just met? Zoro could try and excuse his actions - say that he was too tired to think straight or that the man had attacked him first - but it wasn’t true. I’m just a stupid fucking hot-headed shithead who can’t even keep my stupid emotions to myself and lash out at everyone just like I did with her-
Zoro bit down on his tongue and the pain ripped through his thoughts. Anything, anything was better than having to think about that again.
But blue, blue, blue swam at the edges of his mind, like vines creeping over old gates and he wanted to shred his stupid brain to pieces for even suggesting the memory.
Instead, it decided to flash back to the restaurant again, at the dozens of people watching him as he left, at the glare of the stupid blonde waiter hovering on him as he pushed his way through the doors…
The car turned left into the carpark surrounding Zoro’s apartment complex and darkness stretched over the glass, shadows crawling onto his windows.
‘Fuck,’ Zoro whispered, tilting his head against the car seat.
⚔⚔⚔
The back room wasn’t really a room at all, in Sanji’s honest opinion. It was more of a long, narrow broom closet tucked into the corner of the hallway, hidden by swirling greys where the light didn’t reach. The door was painted a light blue, though it had turned into a more muted tone over years of collecting dust and grime. It was an area that most of the staff had collectively agreed to avoid, with Carne even inventing a stupid ghost tale to scare the younger employees.
Sanji pushed open the door, breathing in the mouldy air of the room’s cracked white tiles. One half of the space opposite the door was occupied by a long countertop broken by a double sink, dark blue cabinets hanging over them. The other half was decorated by snapped brooms, fraying mats and a strange stone statue of a dog propped on his hind legs that was framed by droopy, bottle-green plants.
Sanji’s mind was still whirring with thoughts. Guilt, shame, rage… All the threads were tangled together and it seemed that he couldn’t rip them apart even with a meat cleaver.
The sound of a peg leg distantly clacking against the floor startled him back to reality. Oh, great, shit-geezer’s gonna come to scold me. The thought didn’t summon the irritation Sanji was looking for and he grumbled under his breath, walking over to the sink and shoving his bloodied hands under the tap.
Thin trails of glistening scarlet spiralled around his fingers, the sting of glass still present even as Sanji scrubbed at his skin to wash away the blood. The flood of water rushing through the drain drowned out the surrounding noise, but it wasn’t loud enough to silence his thoughts.
That shitty mosshead, shoving me like that. He could’ve injured my hands if he’d done it any harder. How was I supposed to cook then? Sanji gazed at the scratches on his fingers - the first he’d ever gotten. His prized hands that he took such care of - tarnished in a single night.
You’re the one who challenged him first and then you get mad when he responds?
Sanji scowled. It was that voice again - that stupid, stupid, venom-laced voice that wound around him and whispered all his failures in his ear, the one that told him he was doing everything wrong, that he was never enough, that all he did was be a burden-
And it was right this time. And he hated it. Hated that he had been the one to start the fight, hated that the restaurant would suffer because of his mistakes, hated that a small part of him didn’t regret wanting to cave the man’s skull in.
Rude customers were a given in any retail job, but Sanji had always been the one to bite back his words. He had always been the one to hold his tongue, to ignore the poorly disguised jabs and passive-aggressive remarks the customers gave him. It didn’t really faze him, not after years of enduring living under Zeff’s roof. But his words… they made Sanji’s heart burn.
How could he just fucking say that? And look so calm about it? Doesn’t that shitty bastard have an ounce of decency?
Oh, as if you have so much of that. Kicking a man for being mean? Are you still that same whiny kid from before?
Sanji wanted to scream, to bury his head in his hands and scrape that stupid voice out of his head, but the guilt clawed at Sanji’s chest, grating at his heart.
Fuck.
‘So are you gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?’
Sanji grumbled under his breath and shut off the tap, wringing his hands over the sink to dry them and turning to face Zeff.
‘Do I have to?’
Zeff arched an eyebrow, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall. When Sanji refused to answer, Zeff sighed and twirled his finger around his braided mustache, his glare softened at the edges by something close to care.
‘Listen, eggplant, it’s not like you to lash out like that, so something’s gotta be wrong. Are you working too hard? Uni stress? Get into a fight or-’
‘I’m fine,’ Sanji hissed, too quickly for his statement to sound genuine. ‘But that table isn’t. Yeah, I know I fucked up. I’ll pay for it. You can even fire me if you-’
‘I’m not gonna fucking fire you over something like that,’ Zeff interrupted, ‘I can name half the staff who’ve done worse shit than you have that are still here today. And I’ll pay for it.’
Sanji opened his mouth to argue, but Zeff swiftly continued before he could get a word in edgewise.
‘Just tell me why you did that.’
Sanji drew in a shaky breath, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Why?
He knew why - the memory was imprinted in his mind, fresher than vegetables at a farmer’s market.
Your boss is probably just too fucking lazy.
Lazy, when the geezer had dedicated his whole life to sculpting this restaurant to perfection?
Lazy, when he manually checked each dish to make sure it met the restaurant standards?
Lazy, when he poured every ounce of his soul into maintaining the restaurant for the customers?
Zeff had built Baratie from the ground up, over years and years and years of hard work, all while caring for a brat that never did more than irritate him to no end.
And that filthy mosshead just gets to shit on it like it’s nothing?
Sanji almost excused the act for that alone.
But the guilt clawed its way back up, suffocating in its overwhelming nature. The man didn’t know anything about Zeff or the effort he had put into building this restaurant and Sanji had let the anger spill into his words, his actions, until he finally did something that was so irreversible he wanted to kick his own face.
What the fuck was I thinking, nearly kicking a rando I just met? The guy was just a stupid, regular customer that probably wouldn’t have even remembered me if I just held my tongue instead of spouting all that stupid bullshit. Fuck, Sanji, can’t you do anything right? Is all you can do is be a walking mistake?
Sanji bit his lip, trapping the answer in the confines of his thoughts. He stared back stubbornly at Zeff, refusing to so much as breathe to break the silence. On his life, the geezer would probably never know how much Sanji cared about everything he had done and continued to do for him. It was a favour he probably couldn’t pay back in a thousand lifetimes.
Zeff held his gaze for a few moments, then finally relented with a sigh.
‘Fine, you can be a stubborn arse and not tell me anything. But your little stunt is probably going to cause a hassle for the marketing team.’ (By marketing team, he meant Patty with a PC that still ran on Windows 7 poorly photoshopping adverts.)
Shit. Sanji hadn’t even begun to think about the consequences his actions would have on the restaurant’s reputation; his mind had conveniently been too wrapped up in his own shit to notice half the things happening around him.
All of them were going to have to pay because of his stupid mistake.
Zeff seemed to track his train of thoughts, as he suddenly broke the silence with a tap of his peg leg to refocus Sanji’s attention.
‘Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with this unpunished, eggplant.’ When have you ever? ‘You’re on toilet duty for the next few weeks.’ Of fucking course. ‘And go clean up your mess. Those glass shards might harm the customers.’
The last one, at the very least, was something Sanji could agree with, and he gave Zeff a curt nod before he walked off, probably to ensure that Henry didn’t try and use metal on a non-stick pan again.
Sanji held his breath until Zeff’s footsteps faded away. He sighed, half-conscious as he moved through the hallway to retrieve a broom and a pan, his mind still reeling. At the very least, his heart was clearer now, though it still pulsed with relentless guilt. It didn’t help that his mind was replaying the scene in his head, in perfect slow-mo as the crowd watched on, the shame and guilt crawling into every crack and crevice in his near-perfect facade of indifference.
‘Fuck,’ Sanji muttered under his breath, wrenching a broom off the wall.