Make No Mistake

by dickyang

College AU. This is an account of a series of events poorly defined as the best days of their lives. Zosan/Frobin

1. August

Chapter 1: August

---

Sanji clenched his fist around the ten dollar bill in his pocket as he walked to a seedier part of town—a part of town completely unfit for a kid his age to be wandering around in. He kept his eyes peeled, searching down alleys and side-streets.

He'd worked very hard for that ten dollars. It was bullshit, that being all he had, but he'd work harder. Every day. He had finally convinced that shitty old man to actually pay him for all the work he did in that stupid restaurant. The Baratie. Ugh. He'd scrubbed so many dishes that his hands felt raw.

It'd taken him nearly a year to convince Zeff to not only let him work in the restaurant, but to compensate him for his time. It probably wouldn't have taken him so long if he could speak the fucking language when he first got there.

He remembered trying to get Zeff to actually let him cook. That hadn't gone well. But it'd had its small victories. Extremely small.

Zeff had walked into the small apartment they shared and found Sanji standing atop one of the counters, digging into the cabinets overhead to find another frying pan. He was caught red-handed.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing, brat!" Zeff had barked at him, and Sanji had spun around, jumping off the countertop, trying to hide the pan behind his back.

He remained silent.

"You know you're not allowed in the kitchen."

Sanji stared blankly at him, translating in his head. He recognized a few of the words Zeff had said to him. He could work with that.

"I can cook," Sanji said in English, and he held the frying pan out in front of him, doing a little flip of some imaginary stir-fry. Or something. Whatever. Zeff knew what he was saying.

"There's no way I'm letting some shitty nine-year-old kid who likes to play chef use my nice and expensive pots and pans and cutlery and ingredients," Zeff growled.

Sanji paused and processed the sentence with the words he knew. He actually knew most of those words when he thought about it. Zeff stood there, looming, with his arms crossed over his chest. Even when he was raging pissed, he always gave Sanji time to stop and mentally translate.

He wanted to say a lot of things. He wanted to tell Zeff that he'd been cooking for years, and that he was probably better than the old shitty bastard, and that he could turn that stupid shitty restaurant into something incredible, and he would make all the chefs there look fucking stupid in comparison, just give him a goddamned chance—but he couldn't, he didn't know all the words for that, or hardly even half of them, and he grit his teeth together, incredibly frustrated.

"Let me work. At the Baratie."

Zeff threw his head back and laughed, and Sanji seethed.

"Absolutely not."

"No?"

"No."

"Why!"

Zeff snatched the frying pan from Sanji's grip and knocked it against his head, and the little blond clutched his skull and mumbled what could only be a string of curses in his mother tongue while he glared at his legal guardian.

"Because you're an ignorant, bratty little punk with a shitty attitude, and I highly doubt you could cook anything close to being edible, much less enjoyable."

"Just tonight," Sanji ground out, nearly shaking. "I'll show you," he said, his accent so thick, stretching and softening his words too much, he knew, he wrestled with the damn vowels, they were butchered in this language, the kids at school always fucking mocked him for it, called him stupid, he spoke so slowly, and even speaking now made him so astoundingly angry. But he knew that Zeff could understand him easily at this point. "Let me cook just tonight and I'll show you. I'm a great chef."

He rarely ever spoke so many words in a single sentence. He rarely spoke at all.

"Please," Sanji said, finally lifting his eyes to Zeff's. "I love to cook."

Zeff regarded him for a moment, and Sanji held his breath. And after an eternity, Zeff held the frying pan out to him. "Just tonight."

Sanji grinned at Zeff, and he thanked him in French, because he forgot to switch over, and Zeff smiled and said, "You're welcome," once Sanji's back was turned.

The actual presentation wasn't as warm and fuzzy. Zeff had hated the soup, hated all of it, told him it was all terrible, awful, and Sanji had been ready to launch himself at the old man and kick him into a coma when Zeff had offered to let him start washing dishes at the Baratie.

"Dishes?"

Zeff nodded at the empty plates and bowls between them. "You can't work in the restaurant as a chef until you can keep up. You took forever to make the soup you made tonight. You start with dishes, learn the pace, and then we'll see."

Sanji had lit up. "We'll see? Maybe?"

Zeff nodded again. "Dishes and maybe, we'll see."

Sanji was smiling madly as he collected the plates and bowls from dinner and immediately set to washing everything and tidying up and displaying his aptitude for doing the dishes. He'd show that old man.

He had not been prepared for the popularity of Zeff's shitty restaurant. He had not been able to keep pace at first. He'd been buried in mountains of dishes, all disgusting, and he was barely tall enough to reach into the sink—he had to stand on a milk carton—and it was torture.

Two months later, he was the fastest dishwasher in the kitchen and there was no need to keep paying anyone else to do it. Which had led Sanji to a revelation.

"Zeff, will you pay me for the dishes?" Sanji had asked him one day as he rubbed his hands dry with a towel. The old man had laughed at him.

"I'll give you a dollar for every hundred dishes you wash."

Sanji had nodded. He had very little concept of money. It sounded fair.

It took longer than anticipated to amass ten dollars, but he'd done it, and he had traded it in at the cashier for a ten dollar bill, smiling to himself. It wasn't that he wasn't a good enough chef—that definitely wasn't it. He knew he was a great cook. Zeff was full of shit, he was certain of that. So it had to be something else—there must've been another reason why the old man wouldn't let him be a chef already. He'd proven he could keep up, he could speak enough English to get by when necessary—definitely enough to get by in the kitchen.

It must be because he was still a kid. So Sanji would show Zeff that even though he was young, he was an adult. Or, he might as well have been. He took care of himself, and now he worked for his own money and could spend it on what he pleased.

So he decided he'd buy cigarettes. That's what adults did. Children didn't smoke cigarettes. In France, everyone he knew smoked. It made sense to him that this was the natural way to go about things.

And that was how he wound up in the seedier part of town, a ten dollar bill in his pocket, searching the streets. It wasn't long before he located his target.

He jogged across the street and approached the older homeless man he'd seen around there before.

"Excuse me," he said to him, and the dirty old man looked up at him.

Sanji forced a smile. He'd practiced this part by himself. He held out his ten dollar bill to the bum and recited the phrase he'd memorized and enunciated clearly and nearly flawlessly.

"If you buy me a pack of cigarettes with this, you can keep the change."

The homeless man smiled. "What kind'ya want?"

Sanji faltered. "What kind?" he repeated. Kind? What nice? No. Wait. Type. Kind was also type. Type was also with a computer. Fucking English. "Which one?"

"Uh, yeah?" the bum paused, giving Sanji a look as the kid defaulted back to his thick accent.

"Uh... Marlboro? Camel? I don't know, ah... You choose. Okay? And you can keep the change?"

The bum snorted. "Sure."

Sanji watched him closely, ducked behind the hood of a car across the street, as the bum went into the liquor store and picked up a small bottle of clear alcohol for himself and, yes, a pack of cigarettes for Sanji. The blond grinned as the homeless man approached him and tossed him the pack.

"Thank you!" Sanji said, and the man shrugged, and Sanji took the back alleys home, and he lit his first cigarette with a lighter that he stole from Zeff that the old man used to light cigars, and he choked and hacked and coughed and loved it.

It'd taken Zeff a while to notice.

"Have you been smoking goddamn cigarettes?" he'd asked when they were sitting at the table for dinner, leaning over to smell Sanji.

"So what?" he'd responded, jerking away and looking over at him, and Zeff glared back. "I'm an adult now, right?" he'd grinned.

"You're an idiot, is what you are. You're going to be an even worse chef, you won't be able to smell anything."

Sanji shrugged. "You don't let me cook anyway."

They hadn't spoken much after that.

He'd imagined school would get better after he could speak more of the language. He was wrong. The more he tried to communicate, the more he regretted it. He didn't know why he opened his mouth. Zeff was fine to talk to, even if he was a shitty old man. The kids at his school were assholes.

Things went from bad to worse. It was frustrating enough to not be able to communicate. It was utterly enraging to be made fun of for attempting it.

It was nearing the end of the school year when he finally lost his shit.

"Does everyone wear their hair like that in France?"

"Does everyone in France look retarded?"

"Is that what fashion is like in Frahnce?"

He was walking home from school. It was warm out. He was focusing on the weather. And he was also being followed.

"Excuseh me, can yoo tehl me whear isseh twalet?"

"I 'ave to takah fat sheet, I ate zoooo mooch French food for le breakfast!"

He was ignoring them, he was completely unaware of the group of six boys tailing just behind him.

"Oh, I'ma zo sooree, I cannotta help beeing a, ah, smelly Frenchman-"

Sanji was still walking. Staring straight ahead. Clenching his jaw so fucking hard and his hands were shaking.

"What iz diis dayorant you speak of?"

"In France, wee oh-nly eat—"

Sanji turned on his heel, dropped his backpack onto the sidewalk, and hurled himself at the boy in the middle of the group.

"You'll eat my fucking fist!" Sanji shouted at him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming his fist into his face, over and over as hard as he could, and several other boys were yanking him away, twisting him around, and Sanji felt a white hot burning pain explode across his nose and his mouth.

He tasted blood and he struck out at them and thrashed and yelled until he was on the ground, held down by the group, being kicked in the ribs and the stomach and he felt like he was going to fucking vomit.

"You can't beat all of us, are you fucking retarded!" one shouted, leaning over him.

Sanji bucked from under their grip, his chin dripping blood, and he freed his leg and kicked the kid straight in the face, and his opponent stumbled backwards, clutching his mouth, and Sanji was reduced to a punching bag.

"Tu sais combien de temps ta mere met pour chier?" Sanji said when he was finally granted a momentary reprieve. He sucked a long, wet breath into his lungs, and his whole body hurt so bad in so many places that his mind was screaming at him, panicking, alarms were going off in his head, but he was almost numb to it all, almost, past the point of logical response, and his voice was steady as he swallowed and said, "Neuf mois."

His eyes were closed and his mouth was warm and maybe he was missing a tooth. Yeah. He was. He tongued the new hole in his bottom row of teeth at the back of his mouth.

The six boys stood around him. "We can't understand what you're saying, and you sound fucking stupid. Do you want us to beat your ass some more? If you got something to say, say it in English."

Sanji was flat on his back on the sidewalk, and he opened his eyes, looking past them, up at the blue sky above him. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your lives. Eat shit. All of you."

Swearing in English wasn't as fun as swearing in French, but he felt his point had been well received as he was awarded another kick to his ribs, and he curled in on his side, coughing hard, and they left him there.

Once they were far, far away from him, and he'd found his breath again, and his entire body was on fire, like a white-hot all-over burning sort of fire, and aching and bloody, and he was actually visibly shaking, almost unable to see straight, he sat up and crawled on his hands and knees over to his backpack, and he dug through it and found his pack of cigarettes with the lighter shoved in the cellophane, and he lit one and sat there in the grass next to the sidewalk and smoked the entire thing before dragging himself to his feet.

Zeff raised his eyebrows at him once he arrived home.

"Damn, brat, you got your ass kicked."

Sanji nodded and dropped his bag on the floor next to the door. "Assholes."

"You okay?"

"I'm okay."

"You should try making some friends sometime. That might work out better."

Sanji scrunched his nose at the idea, which he immediately regretted because it hurt like all hell.

"Shut up. I don't want to be friends. I hate all of them. Fuck them all." Sanji walked over to the mirror that hung in the hallway and got a look at himself and grimaced. He gingerly touched his cheekbone, which was bright red and still bleeding a little from when his face had been shoved against the concrete sidewalk.

Zeff watched him from the couch. "You shouldn't get into fights. You could mess up your hands, and then you'll never be a chef."

Sanji whipped around and shouted at him, "So what, if you never let me cook! Who cares! You—you're just as, as shitty as the rest of them! You think I'm a kid! Just like them! You'll never let me cook! I'll wash dishes my entire life with you, shitty old man."

"You are just a kid! You're barely ten years old! You should be outside with other people your age, not spending all your time being pissed off and working in the restaurant! Enjoy your youth, brat!"

Instead of saying anything, Sanji turned and walked down the hallway, going to the bathroom and slamming and locking the door behind him, and he cranked on the shower and tried to forget the entire day.

When he finally emerged over half an hour later, the apartment was empty and Sanji was glad for it. He went to his bedroom and pulled on an old t-shirt and pants and laid on his bed, glaring at the ceiling, and he felt like he got hit by a truck.

Twenty minutes later, Zeff kicked open his door, and he sat up too quickly and held his pounding head. The old man walked over and dropped an old notebook on the bed next to him. Sanji looked down at it and then up at Zeff again.

"Those are the recipes for the main dishes at the Baratie. Start memorizing them."

For the first time in a very long time, Sanji grinned. He smiled so hard that it hurt his face. He hardly felt it. He picked up the old yellow notebook and flipped through it. He didn't see Zeff's face, quiet and happy as he watched the blond boy pour over his recipes. Sanji's eyes didn't—couldn't—leave the pages in his lap.

"Thanks, old man. Thank you so much."

---

The kitchen echoed with shouts, the clinks and clangs of pots and cutlery, the sizzle and hiss of cooking food, and the steady roar of all of the devices to bake, broil and sear. It was hot and chaotic, and even though Sanji barked out sharp orders at his co-workers every few moments, when it was just him and the ingredients, the corners of his lips always climbed upward.

Sanji could hear his shift manager hollering about something from just outside of the kitchen. But then, that was no surprise—that prick Fullbody was always angry about something. Usually something ridiculous, or, even more likely, something that was actually the shift manager's own fault. From the decibel of his shouts, Sanji felt deeply confident in his assessment that it was, in fact, the latter. His boss was a fucking idiot.

Gritting his teeth, Sanji refocused back on the twenty-some odd tasks he was currently performing. It was, presumably, the tail-end of the dinner rush, and he was working on the last dozen or so orders in his queue.

It hadn't been a particularly busy night, but even slower nights were always fairly fast-paced at Mariejois. It was the only highly acclaimed restaurant within at least a ten or fifteen mile radius, so they never had a lack of demand.

Since he had spent over half his life in a kitchen, some of the tasks that took the older chefs awhile to get the hang of were just second nature to him. Sanji didn't need to think and plan and contemplate—when it came to cooking, his body reacted with precision. The other cooks were by no means inexperienced—it was just that Sanji could probably cook circles around every last one of them. And usually did.

Just as he finished and plated the last of the dishes he'd been working on, the double-doors to the kitchen burst open, and his eyes snapped upwards. One of the waitresses—a pretty young woman with twin ponytails that fell loosely along the back of her shoulders—stormed in, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes puffy.

She lowered her head and walked towards the back, away from everyone else.

Sanji threw down the rag he'd been using to wipe down his section and followed her.

"What happened?"

She wouldn't look at him, not directly, and it was obvious, the way she was gritting her teeth, her hands still clenched in fists, that she was trying extremely hard to contain herself, her eyes red and watering.

"Rika, what happened?"

Her lips slightly parted, she continued avoiding his eyes. "It's stupid, it doesn't matter."

"It obviously matters." Sanji bent over at his hip, lowering his head until he was eye level with her.

"It's nothing, it's just... God, that jerk Fullbody," she barely managed to choke out, tears flooding her eyes.

Feeling eyes on him, Sanji turned around and realized half of the kitchen was staring at them. He turned his attention to Rika again, reaching behind her and placing his fingers on the small of her back, gently pushing her toward the rear door leading out of he kitchen. "Come on, let's go out back for a few minutes."

"Didn't you already have your break—"

"Who cares, let's go." He turned around for a moment, spotting a tall busboy who was depositing a tray full of dirty dishes into the sink. "Hey, you," Sanji called out brusquely, jutting an index finger in his direction. When he had his attention, the pointing finger shifted to the line of plates he'd just placed underneath the heating lights. "All those orders need to go to table 26."

The busboy's eyes briefly flitted to Rika's flushed face. "Uh, no problem, I got it," he said, quickly grabbing the plates and hurrying away.

Sanji and Rika slipped out the back door, walking around the dumpsters until they found an open stretch of wall. Sanji leaned against the brick, fishing in his pocket. "So, what'd that asshole do this time?" he asked, as he jammed a cigarette between his lips, cupping his hand around the end of it as he flicked on the lighter.

"You probably heard him screaming his head off," Rika said, her voice considerably calmer now. "I was waiting on this guy who ordered a bunch of stuff, and when I brought him his check, he couldn't pay for it. I didn't know what else to do so I got Fullbody, and, I don't know, he totally flipped. Started screaming at me and stuff."

"At you? That's not your fault, though," Sanji said sharply, a swell of rage flooding through him.

"I know!" she practically shouted, her face flushing again.

"What the hell does he think you're gonna do, ask people if they have money up front? We're not a fucking McDonald's."

"He said I should've known better, letting 'someone like that' just order whatever they wanted."

"'Someone like that?' Did he actually say that?" While Sanji wasn't quite sure what his dumbshit of a boss might have meant by that, the rage bubbling within him was quickly rising to a boil. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, rapidly burning through the tobacco rod.

"Yeah, his exact words," she said, wiping away what might have been a tear with the back of her hand.

"What the hell is wrong with him? It's that fucking cocksucker's job to handle these situations, not yours," Sanji said, pausing briefly and glancing up at her again to add in a quick, "Sorry." Rika actually rolled her eyes at him—fair enough, they'd worked together for over a year and she was certainly familiar with his vernacular, but, still.

He took a final long drag on his cigarette before dropping it on the ground, stomping down on it with finality. "I'm not gonna let this shit slide."

Sanji brushed past her, making long, agitated strides toward the back door.

"What are you doing?" Rika called after him, almost running to keep up with his pace.

"I'm going to give Fullbody a piece of my mind."

"What are you talking about? He's with that customer right now! Don't go out there, oh my god, he's going to get so freaking mad."

"Like I give a shit!" Sanji called back at her, striding through the kitchen with purpose, bursting through the double doors into the lobby of the restaurant.

He was seeing red, barely paying any attention to the throngs of customers, most of whom seemed like they were getting ready to leave. Several tables of customers were beginning to rise from their seats, sliding back heavy, upholstered chairs, as they pulled themselves away from thick white tablecloths.

But Sanji was fuming, and could barely look twice at any of them. That asshole, there was no reason to yell at the employees like that, especially a sweet young woman like Rika. Just because that stupid bastard barely knew how to do his job didn't mean he should make others feel bad for it.

The lights were low, most of the lit candles on the table tops brighter than the warm glow of the ornate light fixtures adorning the ceilings. But even in the low lights, Sanji was easily able to make out that miserable prick, that make-shift boss who got to pretend he was in charge a couple of nights a week when the regular manager wasn't quickly spotted the stupid mop of disgusting pink-hued hair, standing arms-crossed in front of a table in the corner of the restaurant. He was puffing out his chest in self-importance as he glared down at the scrappy young man sitting in the booth.

As he approached Fullbody, Sanji only gave the customer a quick glance. He was mildly surprising; he was much younger than the usual Mariejois patrons, who were middle-aged-to-elderly, and he was a little... bedraggled, maybe? His shaggy, dark hair was slightly in need of a combing, and his clothes were very casual and rumpled. Even as he was likely going through a very difficult conversation, he worn an airy, careless smile.

But then his attention was turned back to Fullbody, his face contorting into a scowl. Sanji approached the table, stepping right up next to him.

"I need to talk to you," Sanji said lowly, interrupting Fullbody mid-sentence.

He turned toward Sanji, his eyes wide, lips curled back as he clenched his teeth in anger. "I'm with a customer, what are you doing out here?" he asked in an angry whisper.

"I said, I need to talk to you," he repeated, keeping his voice hushed but not quite whispering. "Right now."

"I am dealing with something right now, get back in the kitchen where you belong and do your goddamn job," Fullbody practically hissed, his eyes bugging in rage.

"I can get into it right here, if you'd prefer."

Fullbody turned back toward the customer, still gritting his teeth as he forced his face to return to a slightly more natural expression. "If you could excuse me for just a moment."

"Sure," the customer said, smiling widely.

Fullbody grabbed Sanji by the forearm, yanking him away from the table toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. When they were out of earshot of any customers, Fullbody grabbed Sanji by the shoulders, his face contorting in fury. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You're what's wrong with me. You can't treat your employees like they're fucking dirt," Sanji replied sharply, ripping Fullbody's hands off of him. "And don't you ever fucking lay your hands on me again."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but you can't talk to me like that," Fullbody declared with a swell of importance.

"I'm talking about Rika."

"About Rika?" Fullbody sneered at the mention of her name. "I'm not even done dealing with that stupid bitch for the mess she's gotten the restaurant into right now."

Sanji's hand clenched into a fist, his eyebrow twitching. "How fucking dramatic are you... how is one customer not paying a 'mess' for the restaurant? You're just a lazy bastard who doesn't want to deal with anything that takes you away from slacking off in the back office."

"All you do is throw chunks of meat into a pan, you don't know shit about what I go through each and every day to make sure you keep getting a paycheck."

Sanji closed his eyes for a minute, forcing himself to steady his breathing, shoving his hands inside of his pockets. If he didn't, he just might punch him. It could happen. It was going to happen if he thought about it too hard. He swallowed, hard, trying to move past the words he wanted to say—because there was a more important thing he needed to convey to this dumbshit right now.

"What you did to Rika—that's no way to treat anyone at all, and certainly not that extremely nice girl who is infinitely better at her job than you'll ever be at yours," Sanji finally said.

"I can treat her however I like, I hired her."

"You didn't hire anybody here and you don't even have the authority to fire her if you wanted, shift manager."

"You better watch how you're talking to me, you piece of shit, because after the owner finds out how you lipped off to me tonight, you're going to—"

"Listen, Fullbody, you're a little new here, so you have some shit to figure out still," Sanji interrupted, his voice trilling with anger. "For one, the owner cares a lot more about their shift manager making a huge fucking scene by yelling at some punk kid who can't pay his bill, and having all these rich fucks seeing and talking about it and making complaints and never coming back because we look unprofessional as hell, than losing out on a single fucking dinner check. There's protocol for situations like this, so learn it, maybe. Shouldn't you know that, with your authority and all?" His words dripped with condescension.

Fullbody's lip quivered in rage, his face flushed. But it seemed he had run out of things to say. He walked past Sanji, letting his shoulder ram into Sanji's as he brushed past him, heading back to the table where the customer was presumably still waiting.

Sanji hovered near the entrance of the hallway, trying to make out some of the conversation. He heard the customer make a few surprisingly relaxed comments, and Fullbody was saying "You're not really leaving me a whole lot of options here," and "I'm going to have to make a call."

As Sanji watched Fullbody walk away from the table and head toward the double-doors to the kitchen—presumably toward the back office, to make a call to the owner—a ridiculous idea came to Sanji.

He approached the table, getting a better look at the customer.

He was young—probably right around Sanji's age—and for some reason, even though he was in big trouble, he wore an aloof smile on his face.

"Oh, hey, you're that guy," the customer said. "Looks like whatever you said to that manager guy got him pretty mad. I thought the vein in his head was gonna pop right open when he came back over here."

"Yeah, I might've gotten him a little rattled," Sanji smiled faintly. Glancing behind him, confirming Fullbody was nowhere in sight, he slid into the other side of the booth, leaning forward. "So, listen... Do you really not have any money? Or credit cards or anything?"

"I've got about forty bucks on me, but that's it. Man, the bill was way more than I thought it'd be," the customer replied, seemingly unfazed that Sanji had sat down with him.

"Forty dollars, huh... Yeah, that may not quite cover it," Sanji thought. If he'd just gotten an entree, it could have been close enough for Fullbody to agree to let it slide and just avoid the hassle. But Sanji remembered Rika's comment, about how he had ordered a lot of food. That probably meant he got actual courses. Appetizer and dessert, at least. Sanji reached forward and grabbed the check. His eyes widened as he read the total. "Two hundred and eighty-seven dollars?! Were you here with other people?"

"Nah, it's just me."

Sanji scanned the items on the receipt. "You ordered four entrees and an appetizer, just for yourself?" His eyes searched the table a moment, but he didn't see any to-go containers. "Wait, did you actually finish it?"

"Yeah, of course, it was really good," he said, tilting his head to the side slightly. "But you know, I had no idea the food was going to be so expensive here. Your menu's really confusing, with all those numbers, like, um... 32.5 and 17. I figured they were maybe sizes or something?" He scratched his head. "But that guy with the pink hair told me they were the prices. Even though they didn't have that S thing with the lines or anything?"

S thing with the lines? What the... Did he mean a dollar sign?

Was this guy for real?

"You thought they were... sizes."

"Everything was pretty small here, too," the dark-haired man went on. "I don't really get why everything's so much... I mean, I'm pretty sure I could've gotten like fifteen or twenty cheeseburgers with forty bucks, but I didn't have nearly that much food here."

Was this guy... for real?

"I was going to order more."

Holy. Shit.

"Fullbody might really call the cops over this," Sanji muttered under his breath.

The customer's smile faded as he regarded Sanji with confusion. "What? Why? Can't I just come back with the money?"

"Are you going to have it any time soon?"

"Yeah. Wait. Hold on," he said, frowning deeply as he stared down at the tabletop. "How much is three hundred dollars... that's about... Okay, yeah, I'll have it on Thursday."

"They'd normally let you pay it back in a couple days, as long as they had a copy of your license, but—"

"Oh, I've actually got that!" he exclaimed, pulling a plastic card out of his wallet and slamming it down on the table before Sanji could finish. "So I can come back in a couple days, right?"

"...I was going to say, but, I don't think that guy's going to let you get off with just that now." After all, Fullbody was the type who liked to show off any pathetic little shred of authority he could. It wasn't much, but if he could get this guy arrested, he probably would.

Besides, this wasn't a rich old man who accidentally forgot his wallet—this was a messy young kid who stuck out like a sore thumb inside of this kind of establishment. He was wearing a disheveled t-shirt and shorts, old leather sandals, and he looked like he had been kind of roughed up. Sanji's gaze drifted to his knuckles. Were those scrapes?

But he didn't seem like a bad guy. Just incredibly dumb. Astoundingly, even.

"You're really going to have the money on Thursday?" Sanji asked, leaning back as he stared at him, pressing his hand to his mouth as he sized him up.

"Yeah, definitely," he assured, with a surprisingly genuine grin.

"Alright, so if I—okay, say I cover for you tonight. You'd really be able to pay me back on Thursday, right?" He paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. Shit, he knew this was an awful idea—but when he thought about the look on Fullbody's face when he found out he wasn't going to get to slam down on anybody, it sort of made it feel worth it.

"Yeah, for sure!" the customer exclaimed, his face brightening. "You're really gonna do that for me?"

Sanji nodded uneasily.

"Wow, thanks, man. Hey, what's your name?"

"Sanji."

"Thanks, Sanji!" he smiled with relief, his jubilance rivaling a kid on Christmas. "I'm Luffy, by the way."

"Luffy, huh... Well, I'm going to come to you on Thursday, then. Is this your address?" He asked, jamming a thumb on the driver's license still laying on the table.

"Nah, I don't live there anymore. It's uh... Hold on," he said, pulling out his wallet again. He produced a crumpled piece of paper with dozens of scribbled notes, written in every direction, in what looked like a grade-schooler's penmanship.

"The hell is that?" Sanji asked, frowning at the paper.

"Hold on, I've got my address on here. Umm... It's... Oh, here it is. 20 Thriller Bark Lane."

Thriller Bank Lane... The street name was familiar. "That by the campus?" he asked, squinting.

"By Sabaody? Yeah, it's right next to it. It's a big, cool house."

"Okay. I'm going to be there Thursday afternoon, then." Sanji reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He'd just cashed a paycheck, so he had plenty of money in there. Counting out fifteen twenty dollar bills, he tossed them on top of the bill. "Now you better cut out of here before my boss gets back."

"Awesome. I owe you one, Sanji!"

"Damn right you do," Sanji muttered.

"See you Thursday!" Luffy called back after him as he made a bee line for the entrance.

Sanji pulled himself to his feet and nonchalantly strolled back toward the kitchen. Just before he reached the double doors, Fullbody sauntered out, wearing a triumphant grin. At first, he ignored Sanji, searching for the customer in the corner booth. When he saw he was gone, his face fell.

"You!" Fullbody shouted at Sanji, spinning around and pointing at him. "Where'd he go?"

"Hmm, where'd who go?"

He scowled. "Who else. That kid in the booth."

"Oh, that guy?" Sanji glanced over his shoulder, shrugging nonchalantly. "I don't know, I think he just paid his bill and left."

"What?! But how—but the police are on their way," he choked, losing his composure for a moment, as he practically ran to the now-empty table, snatching up the wad of twenty dollar bills.

With a smirk, Sanji disappeared back into the kitchen. Rika was standing near the doorway, looking up at him apprehensively.

"Don't worry," Sanji smiled reassuringly, giving her a thumbs up. "We got it squared away."

Later that evening, Fullbody screamed at Sanji for a full ten minutes in the back. But as pissed as he was, Sanji was confident that his job was safe; after all, he was one of the best damn cooks they'd ever had.

Besides, Fullbody could really only get mad at his insubordination. As much as Fullbody wanted to blame him for making him look like such a goddamn fool, as he explained to the police that the customer who had refused to pay somehow miraculously came up with three hundred dollars in cash, he had absolutely no way of proving Sanji had anything to do with it. After all, why would a part time cook and college student throw around that kind of money for a stranger?

Thursday rolled around quickly, and Sanji went to collect his money.

If the house at the end of Thriller Bark Lane had been any less decrepit, Sanji may have been a little worried that he had been given a fake address.

It almost reminded him of a haunted house. Almost. Most of the houses on the road were new but small; he was pretty sure starter was the word for it. Not many people would want to live right next to a college campus when they were well into their careers and families and rest of their damn lives, so it seemed like a logical decision on the part of whoever had the houses built to begin with.

So there they were, rows of neat, uniform houses on either side of the street... And then, a short stretch of nothing but overgrown brambles and trees, until he reached these two fucking anomalies at the dead-end of the road.

One of the houses was a fairly reasonable size—not much larger than the starter homes, although clearly many decades older. Instead of being against the road or lined up with a driveway, it kind of looked like the house had been just dropped haphazardly in the middle of an empty lot, the builder not really caring that the front door didn't align with the road in any particular way. It looked like there was a winding driveway that wrapped around to the side of it, leading to garages that looked like they were built after-the-fact and obviously were not part of the original house. Sanji was pretty sure he could hear the sound of someone playing a piano as he walked by it.

But that house wasn't the address that Luffy had given him. Rather, his destination was the absurdly large home at the end of the street that sat there like a shitty mantlepiece. The yard was surprisingly large—for houses in the area, anyway. Most houses were lucky to have a space large enough to hold a small family barbecue without being too overcrowded. But this house had an ample front yard, and it looked like there was undeveloped land behind it. Weird.

"You better really live here, bastard," Sanji muttered under his breath as he walked up to the house. He paused for a moment, taking the last few drags on his cigarette before he stomped out the butt of it under his oxfords.

The house was in even worse condition than he first imagined. Climbing the steps up the porch, he heard the groans and creaks of ancient wood shifting under his feet. He hoped he wasn't going to fall through the fucking floor.

He knocked on the front door, normally at first. After a minute or two of silence from inside of the house, he rapped at the weather-worn wood with a bit more demand, peeling paint flaking off beneath his knuckles. Scowling, he brushed off his hands, glaring at the oversized door.

He waited, and no one came.

"Well, fuck."

Apparently the bastard really wasn't there. What a fucking waste of time.

Although the house was close to the college and his work, he hadn't needed to be at either today, and the shitty apartment he was renting half a room from was over thirty minutes away by bus.

Jamming another cigarette in between his teeth, he contemplated how long he should hang out on the rickety porch. Never mind the time it took for the bus ride, he really need that money. Badly, actually. Three hundred dollars was a lot—it wasn't like he ever had much to spare.

With a sigh, he leaned against the side of the house, forgetting its condition. Then he remembered the flaking paint and, cursing again, angrily tried to brush it off of his shirt and dockers.

Suddenly, the door creaked open behind him. Whirling around, Sanji saw a mop of messy, dark hair. Luffy looked up at him, bleary-eyed and yawning.

"Oh hey, restaurant guy," he said, languidly throwing the door open.

"Uh, hey," Sanji said, suddenly at a loss for words. He kind of looked like hell. His lip was a little swollen and... Was that blood on his shirt?

Also, was that a hoodie with cut-off sleeves?

"That's right, I owe you. It was... Uh... How much," Luffy started digging through his pockets, producing a stack of crumpled twenty dollar bills. He handed Sanji the fistful of bills with a grin. "That's enough, right?"

Dumbfounded, Sanji took the money from him, smoothing out the bills and placing them in a neat stack. After counting, he wordlessly handed back eight of the twenty dollar bills, keeping back the three hundred dollars he was due.

What the hell was wrong with this guy? Sanji could have pocketed all of that, and he would've never known.

"Well, thanks," he said, taking a quick drag from his cigarette. "So, uh, I guess that's it."

"Hey, you wanna come in, I've got meat."

"What?"

"Yeah, come on, my friend brought some meat over. You know how to cook it, right? I'll let you have as much as you want, if you do."

Sanji's gaze swept inside of the house. It was huge and dark and looked pretty empty. He could make out the counter to what looked like a fairly expansive kitchen from the doorway. After hesitating for a moment, he shrugged, muttering, "Sure, why the hell not." He paused to put out his cigarette before he stepped inside, leaving the butt resting on the porch next to the door. He'd take care of it when he left. If he remembered.

He didn't really understand why he was going—but his instinct wasn't telling him there was anything onerous waiting for him inside. Even if the house sort of looked like the set for a B-horror movie. If anything, Luffy's aura was pretty relaxed—and maybe tinged with a hint of excitement, which Sanji presumed was over getting someone to cook for him.

The house was just as huge inside as it looked on the outside. The condition of the place didn't seem much different, either.

The wooden floors were old and scuffed, in desperate need of a polishing. Refinishing. Whatever made them look like they weren't old, rotting planks.

The walls had wallpaper, of all things. It reminded him of a restored old mansion he had seen as part of a tour for school when he was younger—all the fixtures and the decorations were made to mimic how the place looked in the early 19-whatevers. Except this place wasn't restored, and the mauve-and-white patterned paper was entirely peeled off in some places, revealing the dingy drywall underneath.

That, and the place was pretty sparsely furnished... for the size of it, anyway. Most noticeably, there were two ancient couches and a loveseat near the entrance, in a large area that was clearly functioning as the living room. None of it matched. Just like the wood of the coffee table in between the couches wasn't the same color as the wood of the large, clunky dining table. And the bar stools near the edge of the kitchen counter were metal—not a damn thing matched.

It was so quiet inside.

"So, uh... Is there anyone else here?"

For a split second—so quickly, Sanji thought he may have imagined it—Luffy's face fell. But the leisurely expression returned in an instant, and he shook his head from side to side. "Nah, I'm the only one who lives here right now. But hey, are you looking for a place? You can move in!"

Sanji shifted uneasily on his feet, not sure how to respond to the off-putting question—there was no way he was serious, after all.

"Kitchen, right?" Sanji asked, nodding toward the countertops, and the large archway to the right that served as the kitchen entrance. He was pleasantly surprised by how expansive it was, actually.

"Huh, all this stuff is actually newer, isn't it," he murmured, mostly to himself. Not new—but new enough to actually have some appliances made from the last half-century.

"Sure, I guess. Open the fridge!"

"Yeah, okay," Sanji replied, swinging open the creaky door and squatting down in front of it.

There was meat, all right—and not a lot else. Pork chops, flank steaks, spareribs. He could tell just by looking at it that it had probably been in his fridge for a couple of days. "Uh, this stuff needs to get cooked," Sanji told him, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the condition of the meat. Good cuts—but they wouldn't be good for long.

"Yeah, that's the point," Luffy replied with a laugh, leaning over the top of the door, looking down at Sanji. "You'll make it, won't you?"

"You want me to make all of this?" he asked incredulously.

"Yep. You can, right?"

"I can but..." he trailed off. Well, it's not like he had anything better to do, anyway. And he was pretty sure it would go bad otherwise—he really hated seeing food go to waste.

"Fine, but we're going to need to clean up in here a little first," Sanji replied with a sigh, glancing over at the dirty countertop and sink full of dishes.

Luffy hummed excitedly as Sanji put him to work, first wiping down the surfaces and then drying dishes while he washed them.

"Uh, how have you been cooking the meat, anyway?" Sanji asked, noticing there were no pots or pans dirty.

"I microwaved it."

"What." Sanji nearly dropped the dish he was holding. He desperately wished there was some way he could have misheard that, but it was pretty quiet other than the sound of running water. And Luffy's voice was, well, loud.

"Usually I don't cook it, but there was so much, I thought I'd try. So I put it in a bowl in the microwave for awhile."

"Yeah, don't... don't ever do that," Sanji grimaced, finishing the last plate and handing it to Luffy. "You have pans though, right?"

"Probably," he said cheerfully, setting down the plate that he sort of forgot to completely dry as he started pulling open cupboards and drawers.

Everything was in disarray. Sanji's hand twitched—it was so disorganized, even though there was so much space to do a great set up. He was already imagining where he would be keeping things, if it were his kitchen. Not to mention, it seemed like there were a few high quality pieces of cookware shoved in among the bric a brac.

Sanji started opening cupboards as well. Noticing something he could use, he pulled a heavy stainless steel pan out of a cabinet beneath one of the counters. Multiple empty plastic containers, sporting colorful branding logos like Cool Whip and Country Crock, exploded outward in the process, spilling onto the floor, along with various other items including a cookie sheet, a couple of spatulas and miscellaneous measuring cups.

"Is this all your stuff?"

"Nah, it was just in the house," he replied, bending over to haphazardly shove the plastic containers and cups back in the cupboard. "So, are you gonna cook all of it?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sanji sighed. He didn't have much reason not to.

"Really?" Luffy asked, his grin the widest Sanji had seen yet—and it was damn infectious, too. In spite of himself, he found himself smiling back a little.

"Yeah, it's going to go bad soon. If you have spices, I can probably do something good to it, too."

"Sure," Luffy said, pulling open two long drawers. They were filled to the brim with single-serving containers—ketchup, mayonnaise, soy sauce, jelly, hot sauce, and god-only-knows what else—and packets of salt and pepper. Grinning, Luffy grabbed several of the paper packets and tossed them on the counter next to the stove. "There you go!"

"Uh... just salt and pepper?"

"Yeah. Those are spices, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Sanji sighed. It was okay though—he could work with minimal ingredients.

Two hours later, he was back in the kitchen, packing leftover meat into the shitty recycled plastic containers that had exploded on him when he first found a pan.

Granted, there wasn't much of the meat left—now Sanji understood how Luffy had been able to eat so many entrees at the restaurant the other day. Still, there were at least some leftovers for him.

But suddenly, packaging leftover meat seemed like the most unimportant thing in the world. Because Luffy, who had brought up his earlier offer of letting Sanji move in, had just dropped a bombshell that made him instantly stop what he was doing as he spun around to stare at him, his mouth agape.

"There's no fucking way that's true."

"It is, though. That's all it costs to rent a room here."

"Like, your own room?"

"...Yeah?" He scratched his head, like it was a strange question.

Sanji's mind reeled. "There's no way. I'm paying more than that to share a room with some asshole right now."

"Move in here, then," Luffy said, surprisingly matter-of-fact.

"Yeah right, if they're that cheap, I'm sure they're reserved. Fall semester starts next month and this is right next to the damn school."

"I told you, there's no one living here."

Sanji stared at Luffy, trying to assess whether or not he was messing with him. He was a kind of goofy guy—but right now, he didn't look like he was kidding. In fact, he looked dead serious.

"Uh. I'm gonna have to think about it," he said finally.

"You wanna see the rooms? You can pick out whatever one you like."

A bit dumbfounded, Sanji let Luffy lead him through the house and give him an ambling tour. Although the things Luffy pointed out didn't matter that much—like the creepy old man picture on the wall of the dining room, or the alien symbol someone had carved into the wood under one of the area rugs—Sanji was able to get a better look at things. The first story was mostly wide open, with the kitchen, living room and dining room being one shared space. There was a large stairwell to the left of the kitchen that led to the upper story. And to the left of that, there was a short hallway, with three doors near the end of it.

Luffy stopped at the base of the stairwell for a moment, looked at the three doors.

"There's a room over there, but I don't know, it doesn't seem like it'd be your room," Luffy mentioned, waving a hand at the direction of one of the doors before he started climbing the stairs. Sanji wasn't exactly sure what the hell that meant, but they didn't stop to look at it, in any event. One of the doors was open, and he could see it led to a small bathroom. The other door, he wasn't so sure—a basement, maybe?

The stairwell was almost excessively wide, and the steps were covered with ancient-looking burgundy carpeting that looked like it may not have been cleaned in decades. A little gross—but Sanji wasn't really one for walking around barefoot, anyway.

The bedrooms upstairs—four, in total—were in the same condition as the first floor. They all had similar (although mismatched) furniture: a bed with some kind of end table, an old desk and chair, and some kind of dresser or bureau. Probably typical, for rooms for rent near the college.

But they were all pretty fucking big, somehow. Way bigger than the piece-of-shit room he'd been sharing with some ill-tempered guy who got up at five in the morning every damn day, rain or shine—well, it was always shine, this time of year—to do his stupid jogging routine, banging everything around in the process, even if Sanji had just gotten home a few hours earlier.

"So, since you're first, you get to pick whatever one you want."

"Since I'm first?"

"Yeah, you know. To rent something."

"Wait, none of these are yours," Sanji realized. "You do live here, right?"

"Yeah, of course. It's just none of these."

Shrugging it off, Sanji took a long, wistful look into the bedroom they were currently standing in the doorway of. It was near the end of the hall, right next to the bathroom, and the bed was actually a full size, instead of a twin. There were windows on both the back and side walls—which probably meant he could get a pretty good cross breeze, even on a warm day like today.

And from this location, he was pretty sure he could walk to Sabaody University in the amount of time it took him to take the bus. Same for work. And old or not, the kitchen was pretty impressive...

"Well, shit," he muttered underneath his breath; he was dangerously close to making what might have been a rather reckless decision. But it was getting more difficult by the minute to even think about sharing that awful room he currently lived in for even a few more days.

Luffy grinned knowingly. "So you're gonna take this one, then?"

"Shit," he muttered again, his gaze locked on the inside of the room. "I think I am."

---

It only took two trips for Usopp to move all his shit in. Luffy had helped him move his carpenter's chest up the creaky stairs, and it was fucking difficult only because the stupid fucking kid kept making him laugh, and that made his limbs go limp, and he was having such trouble holding up his end. Even with all of the tools he has amassed over the past several years temporarily removed from the chest's drawers, it was still ridiculously heavy.

Usopp had only met Luffy a couple days prior. He'd been up at the school, pacing the used books in the shop, grimacing at the price tags. Used, even! He'd mentally decided to try to find the books online, and yeah, he shouldn't have waited this long to do it, it was the beginning of August already, he knew that, but he had things to do. Like work in a little coffee shop at the worst hours and try to figure out what the hell he was doing otherwise.

After he'd given up on required text shopping, he'd walked out to his car, moving slow in the sweltering heat, and arrived upon a tanned kid with black hair and a motor scooter in a few pieces in the parking spot next to his. Well, maybe not really a kid—he was probably about Usopp's age. He felt younger though, somehow.

"Uh, do you need help?" Usopp asked, almost regretting it when the other guy's head whipped around and looked at him like he was some sort of Godsend.

"Can you fix these things? I have no idea what I'm doing. I thought if I took it apart, I might understand it, but I'm starting to feel like it was a bad idea," he told him, gesturing to all the parts—the internal components of the scooter—spread out around him.

"How'd you even get it apart if you don't know what you're doing?"

"Well, a lot of it was screwed in, so I just... unscrewed it."

"With what?"

He held up a screwdriver and a set of wrenches. "I borrowed these from the engineering department."

Usopp took a step towards him and looked around at the mess the other guy had made. It was too hot outside for this bullshit. He shouldn't have said anything. Damn it.

"What was wrong with it in the first place?" Usopp asked, leaning against his own car. A station wagon. Wood-paneled, with a little bit of rust around the edges. Not glorious, nowhere near new or even good condition, but it got the job done.

"It dies when it idles. I got it here, but it seems kinda ... done. I was gonna call someone, but my phone died too. All my stuff died, basically. And also, I lost my phone. I mean, it's probably here at the school somewhere. Maybe. I dunno." He shrugged, not coming off as very concerned with his misplaced phone. "Anyway, can you fix this?"

"Probably not. Give me that screwdriver. And stand back—just, stand far away. In fact, you know what, maybe go look for your phone. Don't touch any of this anymore. Ever again."

The young man grinned and held out his screwdriver. "Thanks."

"Uh-huh." Usopp took said screwdriver and grabbed the wrench set and sat down on the warm asphalt next to the scooter, which was turned on its side, and he picked up a black cylindrical piece on the ground next to him. "This is the oil filter, why would you even—"

"I don't know, it looked like it could be a thing!"

Usopp looked over at the other man, who was peering in his car. He had a lot of his shit in there, as he was, ideally, moving. Away from the dorms. To hell with the dorms. "You're a flipping idiot."

The young man laughed and it was way too hot outside for this bullshit. High tops were a bad choice. He should've worn sandals. And maybe shorts. Damn it.

It took Usopp all of twenty minutes to get the scooter back to its original state. And in doing so, he assessed that there probably wasn't anything wrong with the motor, and the spark plugs were still all good, surprisingly, and the jets weren't clogged, and the choke was connected fine, so...

He stood up and righted the scooter, flipping down the kickstand, and he opened up the seat and leaned over, peering down into it. The sun was starting to go down, and he pulled his phone from his back pocket and shined it into the seat opening.

"Toss me the screwdriver," Usopp said to the other man, who had made himself at home sitting next to the tools that Usopp had left on the hood of his car.

His throw was terrible, but Usopp's hand-eye coordination made up for it, and he caught the screwdriver with his left hand and stuck it into the opening under the seat and tightened a gold screw with a spring around it.

"You got the keys?" Usopp asked, suddenly wondering if this guy had lost those, too.

He hopped off the car and searched his pockets and produced a small set of keys, his facial features lighting up. Maybe he'd had the same thought as Usopp. "I do!"

"Start it up."

He hopped on the scooter and did so, and the motor turned over and fired up and hummed as it sat there in neutral. He looked extremely impressed.

"Your idle screw was getting loose," Usopp told him over the drone of the little engine.

"What's your name?" he asked him.

"Usopp."

"Weird name. I'm Luffy—do you go to school here?"

Usopp narrowed his eyes at Luffy's review of his name. The guy's name was Luffy, and Usopp was the weird one of the two?

"Yeah," Usopp told him, walking over to his car, his hands now dirty and blackened.

"What's your major?" Luffy continued, following Usopp around to the driver's side door, letting his scooter run.

"Engineering—listen, do you want me to take those tools back for you? Will you actually remember?"

"An engineering major, huh... so you can probably fix, like, a lot of shit."

"Not really. I'm not a handyman. Scooters just aren't necessarily super complex." Usopp unlocked his car, but before he could open the door, the shorter man put a hand on the window, interrupting his process.

"You looking for a place to stay?"

"What makes you ask that?" Usopp shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Luffy nodded to his car—specifically, the many boxes and bags stacked in there. "It looks like you got most of your life packed into this thing. So either you live in it, or you're moving. Right? Is that not right?"

"I'm looking for a place," Usopp told him.

Luffy grinned. "Perfect. In exchange for fixing my scooter, you can come live at my place!"

"Your place?"

"Yeah, I stay in this big house, and there's only one other guy there now, but there's plenty of room and the rent is real cheap. Like stupid cheap. It's not far away. Here, you can just follow me there in your car and check it out. It's really awesome."

And Usopp actually had followed him, oddly enough, and he actually did check out the house, and yeah, it was a little decrepit, and it wasn't exactly pretty, but when Luffy told him how much rent was a month, he'd had a hard time coming up with a good excuse as to why he shouldn't move in, peeling wallpaper be damned.

So that was that.

Two trips, and he was moved in.

Living with Luffy was… interesting. He'd never met someone with such extreme highs and lows. He was either full of energy, laughing loudly and almost breaking things and in and out of the house like a whirlwind, or he was dead asleep, nearly unable to be woken.

He treated Usopp like they'd been friends for years.

After living there for only a few days, Usopp already felt like he was at home. It was weird. And he couldn't really explain it. It was the way he sat around that giant living room/dining room/kitchen area downstairs, sprawled over one of the couches with Luffy hanging off the big love seat, telling Usopp about all the trouble he'd gotten himself into throughout life. And Usopp laughed openly, drinking a beer and wasting away the afternoon, still a little wired from his morning shift at the coffee shop. Those kinds of moments.

And then, there were periods of time when Luffy wouldn't say much at all. He became more of an observer, sitting and watching with a smile on his face. And other times, Usopp noticed he would go and be by himself, climbing through one of the upstairs bedroom windows and onto the roof, where he'd lay on his back for stretches of time, staring at the sky. Usopp had only discovered this when Luffy had scared the shit out of him by coming in through his window one evening. After that, Luffy had insisted Usopp climb up there with him and check out the view.

It really was a nice view. And then again, Usopp wasn't a fan of falling off a roof and breaking his neck, so he hadn't stayed up there very long.

His other roommate, Sanji, was another interesting character. And an amazing cook. The first night Usopp was officially moved in, Sanji had prepared a huge meal for the three of them, and it was very likely that it'd been the best food Usopp's tongue had ever had the privilege of tasting.

The blond was, for the most part, fairly nice. He had a temper, though, that'd nearly startled Usopp out of his chair one afternoon.

Sanji's voice was smooth and low and controlled, and he had a casual, easy way of talking that made Usopp feel like he could relax. But the second or third day he'd been there, Sanji had caught Luffy digging around the fridge, and Usopp got a taste of the decibel level Sanji was perfectly capable of reaching. Sanji's nature could go from easy-going to straight bellicose like he was flipping some kind of switch. Like pressing a button.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing, you little shit!" Sanji had shouted as he walked in the door, spotting Luffy across the room in the kitchen.

"I'm not doing anything!" Luffy chirped, ducking away and making a break for the couch. Usopp became an unwilling buffer.

"You're in there eating all the food I bought to fucking make dinner, you shitty little thief!" Sanji yelled, stalking towards Luffy, who circled around, keeping the couch between him and the irate man.

"I'm not a thief! I'm, uh, I was… borrowing it?"

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard in my life and it doesn't change the fact that I'm gonna kick you through the wall if I catch you again," Sanji threatened, looking like he entirely meant every word he'd said.

Usopp was frozen, the page of the book he'd been reading half-turned. Sanji's blue eyes fell from Luffy to Usopp.

"If you catch that little fuck in the fridge again, kick his ass," Sanji commanded.

"Uh, you got it." Usopp hadn't known what else to say.

Honestly, Usopp liked Sanji a lot. Despite being a little scary, he was pretty enjoyable. Usopp didn't even mind that he smoked almost constantly. A weird part of him really liked the smell. Luffy didn't seem to care either, and Sanji often paced the house with an ash tray in hand as he discussed things with Luffy or Usopp or got stuck on the phone for ages, yelling at someone Usopp only knew as "shitty old man."

Sanji didn't seem able to talk on the phone and stand still, which Usopp was a little entertained by. As soon as the cook's phone rang, he was on his feet and walking around, always, always lighting a cigarette when he answered.

After about a week with those two, Usopp was already becoming familiar with their routines. Well, he didn't know if he could call them routines, per se. They were more like habits.

Neither of them had any sort of sleeping schedule at all. Sometimes Usopp would find them both awake when he got up for work at five in the morning, sitting on the metal stools by the kitchen counter that formed a sort-of bar, creating the only real barrier between the designated space for the kitchen and the rest of the large room. They'd have beers in hand, and they would be delirious and full of laughter, the ash tray next to them chock full of crushed cigarette butts.

Even at five in the morning, when Usopp stood with them, drinking his first of many, many coffees of the day while they downed their booze before he had to run out the door, their laughter was infectious.

Sometimes he'd find them both passed out on the couches when he came home around nine in the evening. In either occurrence, they were always surrounded by plates that must've been covered in delicious food at one point, but Usopp could never guess what'd been on them, as there were only crumbs left. Luffy never let anything go to waste.

Luffy and Sanji were both a little unreal. They could command the attention of a room upon their arrival, and they could vanish just as quickly. Sanji worked long hours at some fancy restaurant that Usopp could probably never afford, and he rarely stayed still for too long. From what Usopp could tell, Sanji couldn't handle his hands being idle.

And Luffy… Luffy would sometimes leave for days and come back looking like he tripped and fell down a mountain.

And he always came back with a fat load of cash, usually shoved in his pockets—a stack so fat that it didn't even fit in his wallet. Usopp had raised his eyebrows when Luffy had thrown open the door one day, trudged over to the kitchen counter, sat down on one of the stools, and pulled fistfuls of money from his pockets, smoothing the bills out on the countertop, slowly counting them. He was seemingly awful at math, judging by his speed and efficiency with the task.

"What the hell do you do for a living?" Usopp had asked, his legs hanging over the armrest of the love seat he was spread over.

Luffy had looked over his shoulder at him and smiled, his lip cracked right through the very center, still high contrast in bright red. "A lot of different things."

Maybe Usopp didn't want to know.

Luffy's lip still hadn't healed yet a couple days later when the three of them were sitting around in the mid-afternoon, drinking beers and playing music off Usopp's old laptop that he'd put on the coffee table. Usopp had made the mistake of informing Luffy that it was possible to modify his scooter to make it faster, and Luffy was way too enthusiastic over the idea, and Usopp hadn't planned on signing himself up for anything, what the hell, and Sanji was laughing at his misfortune as he lit a new cigarette from his regular spot on one of the barstools when there was a loud knock at the door.

Well, it wasn't really a knock. It was more of a pounding. More like someone was kicking the door. The three of them stopped talking and looked towards the front of the room at the big wooden door.

"Usopp, you answer it," Luffy said, sitting on the counter, swinging his dangling legs a little.

"Why? You answer it!" Usopp protested from the couch.

"You're closer! Also, you're the newest, so you have to."

Sanji snorted as he listened to Luffy's reasoning, his hair hanging over his face as he looked down at his phone, his cigarette still burning in the ash tray, momentarily abandoned as he typed a message to an unknown receiver.

"Why wouldn't you wanna open the door?" Luffy asked, sitting back. "It could be anyone. None of us knows who it is! Maybe it'll be a gameshow host and they'll hand you a million dollars."

The heavy knocking that rattled the entire door continued, growing ever louder. Usopp ignored Luffy, not even bothering with a response, and he stood and walked to the door and wished there was a peephole. He took a deep breath, hoped for a million dollars, and opened the door.

As soon as the door was open, a large sapling potted in a bright teal ceramic pot was thrust into his arms.

"Jesus, about time! Did you trip and fall five times on your way to the door?—Here, take this."

He almost dropped it, totally unprepared. His vision was flooded with green and orange.

"Hey! You shithead, you were supposed to help me move today! Where the hell were you!" A heated redhead stepped around him and into their living room, and she stood next to Usopp in the open doorway, and he shifted his weight, suddenly holding what looked like a small orange tree.

Luffy's eyes widened as he saw her. "Oh, shit! Was that today?"

Usopp watched her hands curl into fists.

"Yes! You stupid idiot! I called you and your phone wasn't even turned on! You told me you had a 'friend' with a car that could help me move, and I had to convince some random guy to drive me! Do you know how dangerous that is these days? I had to get a ride with a fucking stranger, who, by the way, you owe some gas money to."

Usopp looked over his shoulder, back out at the porch. It looked like she'd shoved her entire wardrobe into giant trash bags. There were… a lot of trash bags. He looked back at her. Her hair was so long—longer than his, even. And it was so orange. The same color as the little fruits on the tree he was holding.

Usopp realized he was probably the friend with the car Luffy had told her about.

He could hear Luffy's voice rising a little. "I lost my phone, I'm sorry! I thought today was Thursday! Here, here, I have, like, uh, twenty bucks, will that cover it? The gas, I mean?"

She snatched the twenty dollar bill from his hand almost before he could offer it to her, and she folded it and put it in the back pocket of her jeans and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll make sure he gets it. I don't know how the hell you went this long thinking it was Thursday. Are you always this lost?"

Usopp shifted his weight again and tried to roll his shoulders a little. That tree was heavy. Why the hell was he still holding it? He walked over to the couch and gently placed it on the floor by the coffee table.

Sanji slapped his phone down on the counter and grabbed his cigarette, jumping out of his seat.

"Uh—let me help you with all these boxes—you're moving in here? Ignore the dumbfuck, you'll love it here," Sanji grinned at her, slipping past her to grab half her bags, and he glared at Luffy as he balanced several boxes and bags in both arms, his cigarette at home between his lips. "Help her carry her shit in, asshole."

Usopp looked over at her, and she caught his eye as she leaned against the couch's armrest, clearly not intending to do too much work in the very immediate future.

"Who're you?" he asked.

"Oh, sorry. My name's Nami. That idiot over there—" she nodded towards Luffy, who was piling several trash bags in his arms, "— convinced me to move in here, I don't know how, but he did, so here I am."

Usopp smiled at her. "No, that makes a lot of sense, actually."

She returned his expression. "Nice to meet you."

"You too."

Usopp, Luffy, and Sanji all helped her move her belongings upstairs, and she picked the room across from Usopp's because it had a south-facing window for her tree, which Sanji was able to identify as a calamondin, which impressed Nami, which was about the point that Sanji fell completely in love probably, by the look of it.

The dynamic changed a bit.

Nami fit in like she'd been there forever. She was rational and wild all at the same time. She was a splash of color, as bright and saturated as Sanji and Luffy. She always smelled good, always looked good, it was a little unnerving, and when she laughed, Sanji melted.

Sanji's admiration was entertaining and exasperating.

Nami had been sitting on the other end of the couch he'd sank into when Sanji walked by, sipping something that looked fruity and fucking tasty, and he had an extra drink in his hand, which he held out to Nami, raising his eyebrows with a smile, and she took it with a grin and tried it and threw her head back.

"So good."

Usopp had never seen Sanji look so pleased with himself.

"Where's mine?" he asked, only joking, not really caring.

Sanji narrowed his eyes at him, and Usopp was a little intimidated, yeah, maybe, but then Sanji nodded towards the countertop. "I'm not bringing yours to you, you can kiss my ass."

Usopp turned his head and looked and sure enough, there was another drink up there with a green straw in it and he almost laughed. What the hell.

Sanji went back to the kitchen to start on lunch and Usopp glanced over at Nami.

She winked at him. "You're welcome."

"Oh, whatever, maybe he's covering up his love for me by throwing himself at you," Usopp countered quietly, ducking down a bit, obviously not wanting Sanji to hear him over in the kitchen.

"I bet you're right," she said, nodding, sipping her drink, her shirt slipping a little further off her shoulder, nearly halfway down her arm, and her bra was apparently pretty lacy.

"You're kind of a heartbreaker," he told her, grinning.

She laughed a little and looked over the back cushion at Sanji, walking in circles around the kitchen, juggling several tasks at once. He was stuck in his own world. He probably wouldn't have heard them if they were yelling at this point.

"You think so?" Nami asked from behind her drink, still smiling.

Out of all of them, it was Nami that Usopp had the easiest time talking to.

---

Most of the faculty was still hovering in the hallway as Robin strode into the auditorium, taking a seat several rows in, slightly to the right of the podium. Her seemingly random choice of seating was actually quite intentional, however; from these seats, she had a sweeping view of everyone who entered the auditorium.

Robin's halcyon composure gave her the appearance of disinterest, but on the contrary, she was quite amused as she observed everyone unhurriedly streaming into the moderately sized auditorium, gradually filling the seats. The diversion of watching people was a pastime she had always thoroughly enjoyed.

Most of her colleagues were bleary-eyed and yawning, clutching onto large cups and thermoses of coffee for dear life. Perhaps it was a little masochistic for the university to arrange a faculty meeting at seven in the morning a week before classes started, but to see so many adults in one place who couldn't quite get their minds churning this early in the morning was honestly quite funny.

It didn't make them bad or irresponsible people—but it did appeal to her sense of humor.

Robin inwardly smiled as she heard a man's loud, booming laughter ring out above the tired murmurs and general din of the room. Although the two of them had never spoken directly, she instantly recognized to whom it belonged. In fact, Robin was certain anyone who had been in the same room as Cutty Flam for more than five minutes would probably be able to pick his unmistakeable laugh out of a crowd.

Her gaze swept across the room, searching for the source of the jovial laughter. It didn't take her long to spot the blue-haired man; he was impossible to miss, towering almost a head above nearly everyone else.

Unlike the majority of the faculty filling the auditorium, he was lively and cheerful. Grinning energetically, he greeted a few other professors Robin knew were affiliated with the engineering department. She noted that they were all guarded in their replies, their reservedness all the more apparent when compared to his vivacity.

But, regretfully, their behavior was wholly unsurprising. Genius was sometimes regarded with admiration. More often, however, people seemed to fear it as though it were some kind of contagious disease. Then again, it was human nature to fear what it didn't understand.

Her eyes lingered on the tall man a few moments longer, until a blonde woman wearing a rather short skirt and tall high heels approached Robin, greeting her with a disdainful glare. This woman was Califa, a professor in the business department.

Robin nodded at her politely, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned.

Califa scowled as she sat down next to Robin, crossing her legs as she irritably pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I can't believe all of these teachers, avoiding sitting in the first couple rows. They're even worse than the students."

Robin glanced back over her shoulder, noticing all of the seats were already filled. "You're right. It seems this is the furthest you can sit from the front now."

"Why do you think I'm sitting here?" Califa asked, not bothering to hide her open hostility.

Robin was unfazed; she was used to Califa's antagonistic nature. She did find it rather funny that the stormy blonde was chastising everyone else for sitting in the back first when she was trying to do the same thing, but she would keep the contradiction to herself.

"These meetings are always such a waste of time."

"Why do you say that?"

Professor Califa raised an eyebrow. "What could an all-faculty meeting possibly accomplish? My department has nothing to do your... history department," she said, pronouncing the words with open disdain.

"That's true, but we're all a part of the same university. It's likely more efficient for them to go over the things that affect all of us," Robin pointed out.

"Of course I had to sit next to the only person in this room who isn't upset about being here," she huffed, crossing her arms. "If they want to discuss new policies and budgets, they should just send us a memo."

Robin smiled faintly at her colleague's unabashed unpleasantness. They were on speaking terms only because history tended to fill in anywhere that had open classrooms, whether it was the business and technology center, the arts and music hall, or even the science and engineering building at the edge of campus—where, interestingly enough, Robin would be teaching one of her classes this semester.

A loud hum resounded across the large space, accompanied by a rickety screen descending from above the stage. A moment later, a projector flickered on, displaying an overly-stylized PowerPoint presentation with a basic outline of the meeting agenda.

A woman in her mid-sixties—Tsuru, the assistant dean—approached the podium and announced that the meeting was about to start. As she launched into a lengthy speech that was probably supposed to inspire motivation, Robin discreetly shifted her gaze to some of her co-workers, who all seemed to be fighting a losing battle with drowsiness.

The first topic was about the financial state of affairs. All of their budgets would be severely reduced—never a tremendous surprise, it seemed to happen every year.

The next topic was about the faculty being required to maintain a more professional appearance. Tsuru explained that too many teachers had been showing up in overly casual clothes, and they felt it was damaging to the appearance of the school. How funny that they were worried about such a thing.

Then, teachers who had been tenured were announced, accompanied by tawdry PowerPoint slides with photographs of the smiling professors taken in ill-lighting. New teachers were welcomed. Other staffing changes were discussed.

Califa was completely correct when she said this all could have been done in a memo.

"The last matter I'd like to discuss is the textbooks you've been selecting for your courses. As you should recall, at our last few meetings, I've talked to you about the textbooks published by Toey."

Califa snorted quietly. "That old woman is still trying to badger us about this?" she muttered under her breath, just loudly enough for Robin to hear her.

"Toey has been gracious enough to approach several of our professors to co-author upcoming editions in a wide variety of subjects," Tsuru continued. "To show our appreciation, Dean Garp, the executive committee and I strongly encourage you to consider switching to one of their books next semester, if you haven't already made the switch."

Robin's eyes narrowed slightly. Califa let out another breathy hum of disapproval.

"I get it if you want us to use books one of the teachers here helped write," a loud voice called out, rising about the crowd, "but even if there are a couple of good ones, Toey has a lot of really awful stuff."

Once again, Robin recognized Cutty Flam's voice as soon as he began to speak. She glanced over in the direction where she knew he had sat, inwardly smiling as she saw him rise to his feet. His tie had already been loosened, the knot resting somewhere near his sternum, with his top two buttons undone.

"The new biochemistry books have things that were proven wrong in the eighties," Professor Flam continued. "Their computer engineering books ignore most operating systems. All of their upper level math books I've looked at are so confusing, I can barely follow the examples—and I'm already super good at solving the problems! And as for their robotics engineering books... They read like they were written for middle schoolers. They only discuss the most basic principles and beginner's applications, even in their so-called 'advanced' edition. It'd bore the students to death if we taught out of that book."

Tsuru frowned, the lines around her mouth deepening. "I'm not exactly sure why you're checking out books that aren't even topics you teach, Professor..."

"Toey's textbooks are super expensive as well!" he continued. "Some of the brand new editions cost twice as much as what the more popular publishers charge."

"Once the books have been in circulation a semester or two, the students can purchase used copies. Not to mention they can sell the books at the end of the semester."

"How is that good for the students? 'Oh, this book is five hundred dollars, but I can sell it for eighty at the end of the semester so it's okay.' There are already plenty of actual quality textbooks in circulation. There's just no reason for it."

The crowd was starting to murmur in annoyance. From the words and phrases Robin could pick out, the disapproval mostly seemed to be over Cutty Flam extending the length of the meeting, or over the professor himself—not actually words giving consideration for his argument.

"Well, Professor Flam—" Tsuru started.

"It's Fra—" he cut in.

"Professor. We are certainly not forcing you to use Toey's textbooks. However, since they are working with a number of our teachers, we wanted to return the favor."

"Favor? This isn't your neighbor watering your plants while you're out of town. They're running a business. If they're not supplying us with the best product, no one should buy it."

Califa made a small hum of irritation. "Even that idiot makes a good point there." She glanced over upon the absent response and almost sputtered aloud as Robin slowly rose to her feet and gently cleared her throat.

"Assistant Dean," Robin called out, her voice loud enough to be heard above the crowd while still remaining calm. "You must admit, such strong encouragement from the executive committee puts a lot of pressure on the professors."

Tsuru's frown deepened as her gaze shifted to Robin.

"We are not trying to pressure anyone into anything," Tsuru said flatly.

"I'm not trying to imply you are—but nevertheless, it does make everyone, particularly newer professors, feel compelled to consider Toey's books above the rest."

"It is not our intention to do so. You are all allowed to use whichever textbooks you wish, it is simply something we're mentioning."

"If that's the case, then the words you used—'strongly encourage,' I believe they were—are terribly misleading. Also, Professor Flam brings up a very valid point, about the inferiority of their publications." She turned her head in his direction. "In addition to the issues with the science texts he pointed out, there are glaring inconsistencies in many of the history texts. Some of them are complete anachronisms. Others simply have omissions of essential events."

She watched him as she continued to speak. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape, as he stared back at her. Then a wide, unfettered grin began to spread across his face.

Inexplicably pleased by the reaction, Robin turned back to the assistant dean.

"That is indeed concerning, if that's true," Tsuru replied with a forcibly steady tone, narrowing her eyes. "Thank you for bringing these items to my attention."

"But I didn't bring it to your attention," Robin replied coolly. "Professor Flam was the one who pointed it out."

Tsuru clenched her jaw, nodding her head politely. "Yes, you're correct. Thank you as well, Professor Flam."

Robin returned to her seat, noticing that Cutty Flam was staring at her once again, face plastered with a goofy grin. She unintentionally returned the smile; the silly look on his face was just too much.

---

Sanji sucked hard on his cigarette, giving it several long puffs, smoke hanging around his face, burning down the tobacco past the first little band of fire retardant.

Five or six years ago, he didn't have to tend to his cigarette like it was a fucking responsibility to keep it lit; there was no such thing as a 'fire safe cigarette.' Now, if he didn't keep track of his shit, his cigarette would simply go out. It would stop burning. Completely. Halfway through the damn thing. And it had to be relit, which, eugh, tasted awful. And it wasn't like the cigarettes themselves were actually 'fire safe.' They still caught things on fire. Like, for example, his entire ash tray in his bedroom back at Zeff's place a few years ago. Fortunately, he'd walked into his room in time to see the whole ash tray basically aflame and he had slightly panicked and poured his iced tea on the smoldering pile of butts, and black ashy sludgy iced tea goop had gotten all over his bed and the floor, but. The apartment hadn't burnt down. So.

Fuck, where the fuck was the bus?

Sanji pinched his cigarette between two fingers and pulled it away from his mouth. There was virtually no breeze, other than the occasional gusts of air from the cars speeding by the bus stop where he was still fucking waiting.

Did he miss the goddamn bus?

The sun was really beating down. He wiped sweat forming at his hairline away with the back of his hand. Several cars along the road started honking urgently at an old beat up Pontiac that wasn't moving forward at the green light.

He pulled out his phone and cupped his hand around the screen and squinted at it, trying to read the time beneath the glare.

Fuck, maybe he was late.

He'd dicked around in the back of the kitchen after his shift was over—he didn't normally work day shifts, and he had ended up talking to a couple employees he didn't see very often, and, god damn it—

Did he really miss the bus?

Sanji's cigarette was finally reduced to its butt, and he dropped it and ground it into the concrete beneath his shoe and wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of his nose.

The cigarette hadn't even been enjoyable. Smoking in that balmy late-August air, with all that humidity—it was like being in an oven and breathing smoke and, ugh, it dried him out and made him so thirsty and god fucking damn it, he missed the bus, didn't he.

Sanji turned and looked up at the sign above the building he was standing in front of. It was a bar. And it was open. And it was really fucking hot outside, and his chef's uniform wasn't necessarily breezy.

It would be an hour before the bus showed up again.

Sanji strode into the dark, blessedly air conditioned establishment.

It was still only the middle of the afternoon so there weren't a lot of people inside. Not a big surprise.

He took a seat at the counter, his eyes scanning the line of beers on tap. Gross, really gross, maybe tolerable if he was desperate, gross, sick, and, yeah, so he was going with something bottled, then. He ordered a Belgian he'd never heard of before—but it was something other than a Budweiser, so that was a win—and let his eyes drift to the row of TV screens along the wall.

One screen was playing some kind of MLB season recap show, two were showing the same wrestling match, and the fourth was golf. Cool.

He didn't know what to do with his hands because he couldn't smoke, and he didn't have anywhere else to focus his eyes, so he watched the top twenty scenes from the last season of The Major League Baseball Show and sucked on his beer with his elbow on the countertop and his chin resting in the crook of his hand.

Someone walked up behind him and ordered a Sam Adams. In the middle of a sweltering afternoon? Gross.

Sanji caught a flash of short green hair in his periphery, and he turned his head just slightly, his lips still around the mouth of his Belgian. He looked the guy up and down while he waited for his drink.

He seemed… oh, wait, okay. This prick, he—

"Hey, I know you," Sanji said for some fucking reason as he pulled the bottle from his mouth—why the hell did he just initiate conversation with this asshole? What—what was wrong with him today? He cleared his throat a little and shifted his gaze away from…

Fuck, what was this guy's name? It was something… really fucking ridiculous… Z… Oh—hah—that was it—his name was Zoro.

"Do you?" Zoro asked finally, a crease forming in his brow as he stared Sanji down. The bartender set his pint glass down on the countertop with a loud thud.

"Yeah, uh, we had a couple classes together last year, didn't we?" Did this dumbshit not recognize him at all?

"Hell if I know." Zoro took a long swig from his glass mug.

"You—okay, well, whatever, you and I have had multiple classes together," Sanji muttered.

"Good to know."

Sanji shifted his position in the bar stool, rubbing his mouth and unclenching his jaw, his legs suddenly feeling restless. His fingers tightened around the sweating bottle of beer.

For some reason, Zoro hovered next to him for a moment, his eyes fixed on a recap of a failed base-stealing attempt.

Cool, be fucking awkward.

"Are you, uh, here with people?" Sanji asked.

Why the fuck, okay, was he interviewing him now? Sanji occupied his stupid idiot mouth with his beer, which was almost gone already somehow.

"Nah."

"Waiting for people?"

Was he still fucking talking to this idiot?

Zoro shook his head from side to side. "How about you?"

"Nope," Sanji replied, forcing his gaze to lock onto one of the TV screens again. Golf. Golf would get him out of this. If Sanji would just shut up and disengage and focus on golf, Zoro would probably leave soon enough.

Instead, Zoro fucking sat down by him, leaving one empty stool between them.

Awesome, great. Perfect. Golden.

Sanji remembered the classes they'd had together well enough, even if Zoro apparently didn't. They weren't the easiest of classes, but they were manageable. Zoro had been a thorn in his side, always asking the dumbest questions, slowing the class down, and, okay, Sanji didn't mind that Zoro asked questions, but couldn't he wait until after class to ask shit that could be solved with common sense? He was always late, and disruptive, and he fell asleep half the time and, fuck, how annoying—

"Why the hell are you sitting in a bar drinking when the sun is still out, anyway?" Zoro asked abrasively.

"Missed the bus," Sanji said, succinct as he could be. "And what're you doing at a bar right now?"

"Long story," Zoro replied simply, raising the pint glass to his lips.

"Give me the short version, then."

"Freak sewage accident."

"What?"

"You said give you the short version."

"That's too short," Sanji barked, curling his toes in his shoes. Fuck this guy, figuratively and deeply.

"I couldn't live in my apartment anymore, so I'm staying with a couple friends that said I could sleep on their couch till I found something else."

"That's, uh... wow."

"I don't really like sitting around there all day. Don't want to get in the way when they're already doing me a favor. So here I am."

"That really fucking sucks," Sanji said helpfully.

Zoro shrugged. "Shit happens, I guess. It's just a bad time to try to find a place around here. Fall semester. Everybody's moving over."

"Very true." Sanji thought again about how the clouds had essentially parted and bathed him in glowing sunlight as the heavens bequeathed him with that boarding house. It was right next to the school, even. He'd basically won the lottery of housing rentals.

There was even still that one open room upstairs. Someone else could potentially also strike gold. Someone like—

Nope. Hell no. Sanji, you're a huge fucking idiot, don't do anything fucking stupid—

"I even tried to see about moving into dorms," Zoro added. "As terrible as that'd be."

"Tried to?"

"Yeah. Apparently they're full, unless someone moves out. Maybe that's good, though. I really don't want to try that."

"Don't blame you. You had your own apartment before?"

"Nah, roommates." Zoro's eyes stayed glued to the TV as he spoke. "They found another place to live, though."

"Unfortunate."

He nodded. "And it's sort of hard to get an apartment on your own."

"Tell me about it." Sanji inhaled deeply, the cool, filtered air of the bar filling his lungs. A very, very familiar and faint prickle of craving flooded the back of his mind. A cigarette sounded incredibly good after the beer he was finishing, but, no, it'd hardly been twenty minutes, calm down. Sanji briefly daydreamed up a fantasy about indoor smoking in public establishments.

Sanji did actually pity Zoro just a tiny bit.

But he needed to keep his mouth shut. Zoro was annoying. He was stupid. Literally, he was a fucking idiot.

"Someone will be renting out a room I can afford eventually," Zoro shrugged.

"You know," Sanji started.

A voice in the back of his head started to scream at him, desperately trying to stop him.

"Hm?"

"Um."

Do not. Do not fucking do it, Sanji, you stupid mother fucker.

Sanji rubbed his mouth and eyed his empty beer for a second or two, and he looked back up at Zoro, who was waiting for him to spit it out and, no, Sanji sure as all fucking hell was not going to—

"There's an open room at my place."

Sanji, you stupid… you stupid fucking idiot.

"Is there?"

Sanji nodded and rubbed his eyes and his voice actually sounded pained, like someone was twisting his arm, as he responded, "Uh-huh."

"Is it expensive?" Zoro asked, obviously and mother fucking unfortunately interested.

"Nope," Sanji said, pithy, folding his hands on the bar, and he felt like he was slowly shoving his own face into a brick wall, just totally fucking smashing it. "Cheap as hell. Right by the school."

"You may have just fucking saved me. What was your name?" Zoro asked, and Sanji rubbed his face.

He'd lost his mind. He'd just had some kind of seizure. He'd just blacked out and lost all control of himself. Possibly his entire life.

"Sanji."

"Sanji. Okay. Um, can I, uh… come see it, or, uh…" Zoro said slowly, and Sanji's face was still mashed into his palms.

"Sure. We can take the bus when it gets here in half an hour," he said, his voice muffled.

"Uh. Great."

Sanji took a long breath and pushed his hair away from his face, clenching his fingers around it, his elbows pressed hard into the bar under his weight. Fuck.

"Yep."

Damn it.

He'd fucked up.

---

A/N: first of all, holy cRAP thank you so much for reading. thank you. forever. if you review, thanks even HARDER. your feedback is our life force. sweet nectar. ambrosia from olympus. okay anyway alright

for real thank you. we have put a lot of work into this project and we're so excited to start sharing it with you. this will be one of the shortest chapters in the entire work. everything is planned from start to finish, so no worries about us stopping like ever. if you stick with us to the end then you are a warrior and an angel and an incredible being, and we hope you enjoy the ride

and oh side note, if you didn't know, each chapter will come with an illustration, and you can find links to the art on our profile page.

THANK YOU x 100000 we'll see you at chapter two!

- liz and raquel

ps we know it's toei and not toey okay we did it ON PURPOSE ALRIGHT alright.