"Fight back, asshole!"

God, he wanted to. He could easily kick these guys asses and leave them begging for mercy, grovelling at his feet, choking on their own snot and tears. He could – but he wouldn't. It wasn't as though he didn't want to beat the shit out of them; he wasn't that nice of a guy to let these goddamn bastards go unharmed when they pissed him off so much. But if he fought back… it would affect old man Zeff.

Back at the orphanage, he got into fights all the time. It was a shitty place, completely run down with cracked windows and peeling wallpaper over vomit green walls. The rooms were like prison cells; grey and cold and pathetically miniscule, and he couldn't even fit through the tiny window by the time he was seven. The staff didn't really seem to give much of a shit about any of the kids; they were only there to do their jobs and get paid. It was all they had. To survive in that kind of place… you had to be tough. He started fights, finished them, and even joined some he shouldn't have gotten involved in.

He didn't really care to remember the details of running away. It was kind of pitiful that despite having thought he'd mastered his blasé, uncaring façade, he'd still cracked and ended up escaping on the night of his ninth birthday, after some shitheads stomped on the birthday cake a girl in school had made for him – the first birthday cake he'd ever had. He'd treasured it all day, ensuring it wouldn't be crushed in his bag by carrying it proudly in his hands, beaming down at it all the way back to the orphanage. And then, before he could even taste it, the crudely written HAPPY BIRTHDAY SANJI surrounded by shaky flowers had been smeared all over the pavement.

He didn't lose it in front of them, of course. He couldn't afford to lose the credibility he'd been working for all those years, so he kicked the shit out of them and nearly broke a guys arm before making a break for it and ending up in a district that seemed even shadier than the orphanage itself. There had been flashing neon lights and women in fishnet tights ducking behind alleyways with men in trench coats, and there he was in a secondhand school uniform, cake smeared on his trouser legs and dried blood on his nose.

He'd considered himself one of the strongest street fighters out there, knowing all sorts of dirty tricks and underhanded tactics that had previously been used against him. But it seemed that his harsh exterior meant nothing in his place; he barely had time to breathe when a greasy man who smelled of alcohol and puke pinned him to a wall and started spewing shit about money. He lashed out, trying to kick at his crotch, but had the breath knocked out of him by a gangly fist to the abdomen.

The bastard was yanked off of him before he could dole out any more damage and was shoved into the road, empty of traffic but full of traffickers. Sanji slid down the wall and stared up at the guy who had saved up, awed but wary.

"Don't give me that look, kid," spat the man, voice hoarse. Probably from smoking, Sanji reckoned, seeing the box tucked into his breast pocket. "You're not threatening at all." He raised an unimpressed eyebrow and shook his head. "Get yourself home, brat. This isn't a place for children."

Sanji glared fiercely, leaping up as if the ground had burnt him, and snapped, "I'm not a child! I can handle myself!"

The man scoffed, rubbing his stubble. "Yeah, you were doing so well against that beanpole of a guy a minute ago." He ruffled Sanji's hair, unperturbed when the kid batted his hands away and scowled. He looked about as threatening as a fluffy kitten. "Look, kid," he said, again ignoring Sanji's sputtered protest, "this is a dangerous place. Go home."

"I don't have one!" Sanji shouted, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. "I'm sick of all the other kids taking my shit and jumping on me every damn day! I'm sick of the adults just pretending it doesn't happen, like it isn't important! I don't want to go back there!" He was panting heavily by the end of his tirade, flushed in the face, feeling as if he had fire hot pins and needles all over. He was alone and lost and nobody cared. He sniffed, hoping it would reign in the stinging tears that sprung to his eyes, and clenched his fists.

The old man levelled him with an exasperated sort of look, rubbing his forehead and sighing. "How troublesome," he muttered. Frowning, he stared at Sanji, who was still glowering back furiously as if he wasn't about to burst out crying. He had to hand it to the kid – he had guts. "C'mon, I'm taking you home," he said, standing up and folding his arms imperiously, as if he expected Sanji to just agree.

"Don't just decide things on your own!" Sanji snapped, fists clenched so hard that his uncut nails dug into his palms. "I don't have a home! I'm—" He gritted his teeth, glowering at the stupid old man, and said, "I'm not going back there."

With one eyebrow raised and a groan escaping him, the stupid old bastard didn't seem to be taking him seriously. "Get over yourself, kid," he said. "The world has bigger problems than your pathetic superiority complex." He leaned down, towering over Sanji, who recoiled only slightly, and he said, "I am taking you back there, and you're gonna shut up and follow me. Got it?"

Knowing he didn't really have much of a choice unless he wanted to be stabbed or go hungry, Sanji huffed and trailed after the bastard, kicking bottle caps and pebbles along the way and fighting back hot tears. When they made it back to the orphanage, Sanji's fear had dissipated – he'd hid his trembling after the attack pretty well, he thought – but was replaced with a hollow sense of dread at the thought of being trapped at this goddamn shitty place any longer. It was suffocating, hiding misery behind indifference, pretending not to care that nobody would offer companionship, being stuck in a tiny room and surviving but never living.

He felt sick.

"Oi, why do you have to stop walking when we're right in front of the gates?" the stupid old man said, turning back to glower half-heartedly at Sanji again. "Stop being so melodramatic. At least you have a roof over your head."

"I don't want to go back," Sanji said softly, shoulders shaking as he hung his head, thinking don't cry don't cry don't cry as a mantra over and over. "I'm just as alone here as I am on the streets. School dinners taste better than the crap they give us. Some stupid jerks stepped on the birthday cake a girl at school made for me. It was… It was going to be the first birthday cake I'd ever tasted… and they threw it to the ground." He choked back a sob and rubbed his eyes ferociously, throat aching with the strain of holding it all in. "And I almost ate it anyway! Nobody's ever baked for me before and I've never had a birthday cake and they ruined it! I hate them! I hate it here! I hate—"

He choked on his words, cutting himself off, when a hand rested atop his head. His eyes widened and a tear fell as the old man ruffled his hair again, still as gruff as before but gentler than any touch Sanji could recall.

"I told you to just shut up and follow me, remember?"

That was the day that old man Zeff had adopted Sanji. He lived in a flat above a little café that got next to no customers. He was alone there, but there were photos of a blonde woman with a serene smile on the mantelpiece in the living room. Sanji never asked about those, and Zeff never mentioned the one beat up, slightly torn photo of a blond baby with two loving parents holding him and beaming proudly.

Being adopted hadn't much changed Sanji's mentality though. He still got into fights, still started a lot of them. He didn't have friends. Didn't know how to make them, really. He was accustomed to minding his own business and looking out for himself, and his instinctive reaction to someone grabbing him was a kick in the balls, which landed him in detention a lot. After getting into three fights and breaking one kid's finger – c'mon, one measly finger – his teacher called Zeff, who seemed to want to break Sanji's fingers for forcing him to show up at a school. He didn't really look the part of a loving parent, either. His teacher had seemed petrified of the constant glare and the prosthetic leg, and Sanji revelled in her despair.

But after Zeff had been called in four times because Sanji had gotten into a fight and took it too far, parents were complaining and the teachers were threatening to expel Sanji. He got home late, having hoped that a late stroll would clear his black eye and ensure Zeff went to bed, but the old man was waiting up for him, smoking a pipe and sitting beside a plate wrapped in tinfoil.

Sanji stared blankly at him, schooling his features in order to seem uncaring. Kicking the door shut behind him, he said, "I'm home." He dumped his bag at the side and kicked off his shoes before entering, hoping to go straight to his room. His collar was caught and he was tugged back.

"Just what the hell," said Zeff, eyes dark and mouth in a thin, tight line, "do you think you're doing?"

Sanji yanked himself out of Zeff's grip and turned to face him, glowering. "What?"

"Don't even try using that tone with me, brat," sneered Zeff, lip curling as he put out his pipe and tossed it aside. "Do you think this makes you tough?"

Sanji glared, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I don't care."

"It doesn't. It makes you pathetic and selfish!" Zeff shouted, scowling darkly at Sanji. They glared at one another for a prolonged moment, the air thick with tension and uncertainty, until Zeff sighed and deflated, falling back into his chair. "Who do you think gets shit for your fights, Sanji?" he asked, leaning on his head and rubbing his temple, the lines and wrinkles standing out more than ever. "These kids' parents demand that I pay for their hospital bills, and I don't get much money as it is. Everyone's working on low wages as it is. Carne's a damn good cook, but he has another job as a goddamn cleaner for some good for nothing company. If I didn't have to pay for all your damn mistakes, maybe he wouldn't need two jobs to make ends meet!"

He finally looked up, and Sanji looked much the same as before. Hands buried deep in his pockets, hair hiding his eyes, shoulders hunched up high… He looked like a lost little boy, just as scared as when Zeff had found him a couple years ago.

"Sanji, I care about you," he said, "and if you give a damn about me, then you'll stop getting into fights. I can't keep doing this."

If he was waiting for a reply, he wouldn't get one. He knew he wouldn't; Sanji always shut down when he tried to talk to him. And it always made him feel like the bad guy, seeing Sanji curl in on himself and shut down. Sighing in defeat, he stood up, grabbing his pipe.

"Reheat your dinner and then go to bed. You've still got school tomorrow." He paused at the door to his room, but didn't turn around. He knew Sanji wouldn't have moved. "There're ice packs in the freezer for your eye. Get some sleep, kid."

Sanji had wanted to explain and apologise, but he just shut down. He wanted to scream and kick things and break windows, but he just stood there. He wanted to be a normal kid, but here he was crying into his food and wiping the blood off his face with his free hand.

After that day, he'd stopped beating them back. He didn't stop fighting, not really, just… physically. He still came home with black eyes and cut lips and bruised ribs, but Zeff never again received a phone call from an incensed teacher or a livid parent. All he received were the dark, miserable, pathetic attempts of smiles from Sanji's bruised face, and it didn't feel like much of a victory.

"Why won't you fight back? Are you just too scared, you little shit?"

Another punch had him doubling over, clutching at his stomach and pursing his lips to stop himself from making any noises. He couldn't fight back, but he didn't have to give in and beg for mercy either. Standing up to full height again, he levelled Don with a thin smirk.

"You're just not worth the effort," he replied defiantly, relishing the pure fury that erupted on Don's face. He know shouldn't really provoke someone when he wasn't allowed to fight back, but if he couldn't use violence, he'd resort to words. His bruises would always fade and his cuts would eventually scar, but he still remembered all the shit those fucking bastards at the orphanage had always said to him.

And this guy would remember how Kuroashi Sanji, infamous for causing a lot of tough kids to cry to their mummies, didn't deem him worth a fight.

Knowing that almost made these bruised ribs worth it.