In the end, their dialogues had not been too long or copious or even friendly. On the contrary: They had talked little, and if they had done so, they had shouted at each other at least half of the time. The only thing that had really varied had been the duration of the following brawl. What else? It was only natural.
After all, he had always hated that moron like hell. His inflated ego, his arrogant chattering had always been a nuisance, and his vows of eternal love to about everything with boobs had been more than a normal human being could take without getting a serious hearing damage.
He should have been glad that finally it was quiet.
For some reason, he was not.
Absolutely not.
Probably that was because he had gotten used to the cook's permanent ranting, like he had gotten used to the sound of the waves or the wind in the sails, or more likely the distant growling of angry sea-kings. But it wasn't there anymore, and that gave him a weird, depressed feeling.
He simply expected someone to appear out of nowhere, shout at him or kick him all over the deck at least twice every day. He could feel when this had to happen. Some days, he caught himself holding his breath, waiting for it.
Nothing happened.
And on those days he would slowly let his breath escape, silently, listening, remembering with a cold and empty feeling deep inside that there was nothing to be heard anymore. He would then go find something to distract himself, sleep, work-out, whatever he could do. Now and then he got rid of that indescribable feeling of waiting for something. More often, it got worse.
Especially when he had to save the others again from their own stupidity. Alone.
Those days were the worst of all.
A single man, may he be the best ever or not, wasn't worth a team. Battling his way out of a crowd felt lonely like this, and wrong. There was no one left to cover his back, no one to argue with. No one to keep up to a comparison. No substitute.
They couldn't even swear.
Actually, he told himself, he should have been able to deal with it. He had lost a rival and friend before. But that wasn't the same.
In his heart - his very nature - there was a place where Kuina had been, and where he now kept his promise to her. She hadn't left him with his hands empty, the white sword at his side as a visible proof.
But the utter silence Sanji had left, which was all too tangible, which sometimes left him wondering if he had become deaf, promised nothing. And sometimes, when he rummaged through the fridge unchecked and held his breath once more, waiting┘
Sometimes he had to admit it hurt.