He works at the bar on odd afternoons when the old man kicks him out of the kitchen for stirring up trouble with the other chefs (he's a perfectionist and it's slowly grinding away at the already-tense relationships he has with his coworkers) or he's too emotionally taut to focus properly or he just needs to leave. It's a friend-of-a-friend sort of deal—Gin, one of Patty and Carne's old drinking buddies, owns the place, and the three of them had helped out when it first started—and he doesn't take pay for what he does while he's there. It's not a job, really. Just a kind of not-vacation that's more of the same thing he does every day.
Gin, of course, thinks it's hysterical that a two-Michelin-star chef is constantly running away to a standalone dive joint near the edge of the city, but he never complains when Sanji shows up at weird hours and walks into the back room without a word. He never advertises to the customers that there's this hot shot celebrity of the culinary world preparing their burgers and steaks for however long, either, and Sanji's grateful for that.
There's a kind of relief, Sanji thinks, in cooking for people who're eating because they're hungry, not because they want to publish four paragraphs of scathing commentary on the back pages of an internet blog. The Dreadnaught is always rowdy—thick, scarred-wood, mismatched tables filled with large men and young women and groups of friends, laughing and talking as they finish their plates clean. It's a different sort of chaos from the Baratie, where there's a spirit-crushing pressure to perfect every portion rolling out of the kitchen on a silver platter. Even though the bar is always busy and the cooks behind the window are always rushed, the place seems oddly peaceful in its own way.
Sanji doesn't always drop in to cook, though. On rare occasions he'll sit at the bar and smoke quietly, stirring the ice in whatever drink Gin sets in front of him with the fingers of his free hand, thinking about all the choices he's ever made in his life. And in some extraordinary moments, he'll actually strike up a one-sided conversation with the bartender. Gin humors him, nodding at all the right moments as Sanji monologues, but half the time Sanji mumbles about recipes and marketing and the merits of faking his own death, and Gin doesn't follow most of it enough to respond with any sort of conviction. (Although sometimes, when business is slow, he'll try.)
(Today is one of those days.)
"If you're that miserable, why don't you just haul ass out of there and do your own damn thing?" he grunts, half focused on both his sort-of-but-not-really friend and an off-duty police officer tiredly asking for whiskey. Or at least Sanji thinks that's the case—he's staring down at the wet rings on the bar like they've got the answer to life itself held in their shining swirls, and isn't paying much attention to Gin or the conversation at all.
Even so, Sanji sighs, and it's sort of pitiful sound—resigned and exhausted and something else (something even he doesn't know) all at once. "I can't," he responds, just as gruff.
In the background, someone laughs loud and low, and there's the sound of glass bottles clinking together. A raucous shout of, "And then I said to him—I said, I'm the damn expert here—been in carpentry for years—but if you think you can do better, go right ahead! And I gave him the fuckin' riffler and he just stared at me, like—I swear to God—like he couldn't believe this was happening. Good luck carving that damn staircase volute yourself, asshole, I said, and I just about walked out. You should have seen his face—"
Gin shuffles over after he's given the other customer his drink and leans against the back of the bar directly in front of Sanji, arms crossed. He's got the sleeves of his black button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, showing off forearms painted down to the wrist with a permanent record of his life and interests and whatever else fits his fancy, and for a fleeting moment Sanji wonders what it would be like to get a tattoo himself. In theory, he could do it. He's covered from head to toe in French chef's whites when he works in the Baratie, long sleeves and long pants and a shirt that closes tight around his neck (strangling him), so in theory no one would be able to tell. But Zeff would pitch a fit and he has a reputation to uphold even outside the restaurant, and he's not really sure he would actually want to get one, anyway. Just thinking about the irreversibility of it all sets him on edge, so he wills the train of thought away and sips his drink, frowning.
He's got the elbow of his other arm resting on the bar with a cigarette wedged loosely between his fingers, and while he's caught up in his own head Gin hauls himself back up straight and plucks it out of his hand, taking a lazy drag. Sanji glares, but doesn't comment. He's too tired, somehow, despite the fact that it's only two in the afternoon.
After a long moment, Gin rolls his eyes, blowing smoke out toward the dim ceiling lights. "You say that, but you and I both know you'll be back in here next week debating with yourself about the pros and cons of jumping ship to a damn food truck. Or suicide. I honestly can't even tell anymore." He raises both eyebrows at Sanji and passes what's left of the cigarette back, and Sanji grumbles curses at the fact that it's almost down to the end already. He takes the last pull it's good for and then just leaves it between his lips, tan edge smoldering.
"Ditching would murder Zeff's career," Sanji mumbles around the filter, already fumbling around in the inside pocket of his suit jacket for his pack and lighter. "And that's as good as killing myself either way."
Gin shifts his weight and crosses his arms again just as the policeman waves him over, and in the temporary conversation lull that follows Sanji snuffs out the Marlboro stub in the ashtray to his left and starts burning a second right on its heels. When Gin returns, empty glass in hand, he's scowling. "You need to get screwed or go screw someone. You spend too much time in front of a stove and it's fucking with your head," he says as he starts up the sink behind the bar.
Sanji just kind of looks at him, only mildly amused by the statement. "You should be a therapist," he hums. "I bet you could make bank with advice like that."
"Fuck off."
"Not here, I won't," Sanji deadpans back, and Gin snorts.
"Thank God for that."
They lapse into another silence, then, as Gin finishes cleaning the glassware and tumblers in the bottom of the sink and starts drying each with a hand towel, lining them up on the counter as he goes. Just like the rest of the place, they're mismatched, no more than three of the same kind. Round bottoms, square bases, tall, short. Martini glasses and wine glasses and shot glasses and a mug that says World's Baddest Bitch in chipped, hot pink lettering.
(Pink chipped letters, thinly-sliced salmon, ginger shavings, diced radishes, crushed lobster shells, pickled onions, strawberries and raspberries and watermelon. Limoncello.)
Sanji sucks hard on his cigarette and stares back down at his drink. It's still mostly full despite the fact that he's been sipping it for over an hour now. The ice is melted, though, so that could be helping the illusion of sobriety along, he thinks.
Eventually, the afternoon crowd starts to dissipate, and the bar slips into the downtime between lunch and dinner. It's not empty; there's still that one group of four people—maybe construction workers who've finished their work for the day, judging by their clothes and conversation—near the middle of the room, and at a table toward the back of the place (by the kitchen door) is a young man hunched over something in front of him. He's got a mess of wild, curly black hair poofing around his upper body, though, so Sanji can't see his face or actually tell what he's doing. He doesn't particularly care either way, though.
Only when Gin leaves the counter to collect plates and wipe down tables does Sanji finally realize that the place seems almost too quiet now, even with the few patrons left around. It feels like there are people missing who shouldn't be, which would explain why the owner is doing a busboy's job. Although Gin doesn't seem particularly put off by the work, Sanji can't help but call, "Where's the brat?" to satisfy his own mild curiosity.
Gin shrugs and doesn't look up. "Not here. He went AWOL three days ago. Two more and he's fired."
Sanji raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty damn lenient if you ask me."
"He's a good kid," Gin sighs, balancing a plastic bin of disgusting plates on his hip as he moves to the next table. "He's just got skewed priorities or whatever. It's spring break season so he's probably dicking around somewhere. Unfortunately for me, though, that means I'm going to be short-staffed this Tuesday night, and those are always busy as fuck in March."
Something sets the construction workers roaring with laughter again and one of them pounds the table, throwing his head back as everything around him rattles. Gin snaps at them (Shut the fuck up, Tilestone, before you break something) and they apologize good-naturedly, and Sanji can't help but wonder if this is what running a restaurant should be like.
He doesn't really think before what he says next comes out of his mouth, and after he has said it he regrets ever even coming in to the bar at all. Because Tuesday nights at the Dreadnaught are beyond hellish—they're anarchistic, indescribably lawless. The whole place explodes into a chaotic warzone that Sanji has always made a very clear point never, never, never to step foot anywhere near. But for some reason the sight of Gin laughing with his customers and the emptiness of the place and how frustrated he'd sounded when he'd admitted things were going to get rough without all of his staff has Sanji calling, "I could help out for a few hours if you need it," anyway.
Gin just kind of blinks at him before bursting into loud guffaws, and the sound echoes through the whole building. Sanji has half a mind to just leave at that reaction, to head back in the general direction of the Baratie and suffer there instead, but after a moment the bartender catches his breath and says, "Fuck, that would be really great. I know it's not your scene, but I'd appreciate the hell out of you if you could."
Well, shit, Sanji thinks—because Gin just looks so damn grateful that he can't backtrack now and leave with any sort of dignity. So he just shrugs and says, "Yeah, why not. It starts at eleven, right? That's after we close so there shouldn't be an issue."
He hauls himself up from the bar stool, then, wincing when his spine cracks. As much as he'd like to stay here, he actually does have a job, and Zeff has probably already sent out a search party to track him down before the Baratie doors open in a few hours. Gin has just finished clearing the last table, too, and he starts heading toward the back room with the dish bin as Sanji stands.
"Show up whenever you can," Gin says with another shrug. "You're doing me a favor either way." He throws one last thanks over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchens, leaving Sanji alone to gather his things and leave before Patty or Carne or anyone else can crash through the front door and tow him off. He has three days to mentally prepare himself for the mess he's just signed up for, and he'll need all the time he can get.
On Tuesdays, the Dreadnaught closes early—ten-thirty—and the whole place transforms. The main room is cleared out, some tables pushed up against the walls and most others moved to the back storage area to fill the space left as pieces of cheap construction scaffolding and massive speakers are dragged out in their stead. The bar stools go, too, so that the building becomes something like a general admission concert venue, standing room only.
The scaffolding gets stacked up two layers high against the side wall, towering over the empty center of the whole place, precarious and swaying under the pressure of the pounding bass and slamming feet on the wooden floor that feels like it could shake even the restaurant's concrete foundation. Every light is switched with neon fluorescents and strobes, the colors of which bounce off the haze of smoke wafting from hookahs set up on each of the few tables left, and by the end of the night the air will be so thick and entrancing visibility will be nonexistent at best, even with all of the windows open.
Sanji can hear the music from the parking lot, before he even opens his car door. It's like thunder, already in full swing even though it's barely past eleven-thirty, and as soon as he's out on the pavement he's already tugging too hard on his cigarette. He hates this, hates the noise the crowds and the atmosphere itself. And as soon as he opens the front door and the large man standing just inside—one of the construction workers from a few days ago, he thinks, working as a bouncer for the place—nods to him, he wants to run away. His head hurts already.
Even so, he weaves his way through the crowds—already thick, pounding, and wild—toward the bar, where Gin is scrambling with something blue and gelatin while simultaneously yelling at a young woman leaning halfway over the counter. At the top of the scaffolding, there's a large black DJ setup framed by more strobes, and Sanji can't even see the person silhouetted behind it without blinding himself.
Sanji's still in his suit, the same sort of outfit he wears almost every day of his life, and even with the bouncers, two frightened-looking waiters, and Gin himself in formal attire he's the best dressed in the building. Everyone else is wearing a little bit of everything, really. Cut-off shorts showing just the right amount of ass, thigh-high socks or tights, crop tops that barely count as clothing, heels sharp enough to kill a man; t-shirts, baggy ripped jeans, worn Converse sneakers; wide grins and carefree laughs. (The women, at least. All of the men look the same to him.)
A small part of Sanji thinks that maybe the sheer quantity of women here might make this whole hell worthwhile, but most of them will be drunk soon enough if they aren't already, and that could be more trouble than it's worth. Company is one thing, babysitting is another.
As soon as Gin sees him, the bartender starts frantically waving, cutting off wherever that train of thought had been headed (and snapping back his wandering gaze) before he can get himself into too much trouble. By the time Sanji squeezes behind the bar, Gin is back to shouting over the music at the woman, and the only reason Sanji doesn't chew him out for raising his voice at a lady is that he can barely hear himself think, much less formulate a decent insult.
After a moment or two more of arguing about what might be car keys or brie cheese or a strip tease, the woman stalks back to the center of the throbbing crowd with a huff, and Gin turns to the next person waiting. He doesn't even look at Sanji—he just hands him a handle of rum and says, "Three Coppertone Punches, go," and starts taking orders down the line of people pressed against the bar.
It's anarchy, this whole place. But Sanji does what he's told and mixes the drinks with a kind of practiced finesse even though he's never really worked a day in his life as an actual bartender. No one complains that he's still smoking, and at this point he doubts anyone in the building would care either way. They're here for the music and the booze, not proper serving etiquette, and that's just fine with him. Gin sidles up to him after a while, whipping out glasses and concoctions like he's used to the pace of the demands (which he is, Sanji thinks) and Sanji finally yells, "Hey," over the din.
"Thanks for coming, seriously," Gin shouts back. "Whenever he plays people lose their shit."
Sanji sets two more drinks on the counter and they disappear in an instant. "I said I would so I'm here. I don't get why the hell everyone else is, though. This is a fucking mess."
Gin shrugs, taking someone's card and ID as he does, and replies, "Maybe, but it brings in good money and the kid doesn't charge much to come so I'm not about to start complaining."
Once again Sanji tries to look at the person on the scaffolding, and he manages a peek as the strobes flash in opposite directions. He can't tell if whoever is up there is even human, though, because the head of the silhouette is bulbous and spiked, bobbing with the beat of the music over the turntables. "What the fuck?"
Before Gin can respond, though, (if he even intends to) the cacophony dims in volume as the song winds down, and a voice echoes through the speakers, "Who's your god?" The crowd screams incoherently in response, just shrieks and wails, and the voice repeats, "Who's your god?" a second time, louder and more insistent.
Suddenly, all the house lights in the place dim down, and two massive spot bulbs fixed to the middle of the platform brighten, illuminating the upper half of the scaffolding. Sanji really does get a good look at the man at the top, then, and oh—that explains why he'd looked like something from a shitty sci-fi movie.
The DJ is cloaked entirely in bright red, literally cloaked, layers of vibrant fabric wrapped around his entire body like a Buddhist monk. The not-habit-but-probably-could-be is draped over one shoulder, long-sleeved, leaving the man's right arm, shoulder, and half of his upper torso bare, showing off skin partially covered with an intricate web of swirling tattoos that Sanji can't quite make out because of the distance and abnormal lighting.
The odd clothing, however, is not what catches him completely off guard.
Because in place of a normal human head, the DJ has some kind of ridiculous rendition of an Aztec sun.
The mask is huge and, as far as Sanji can tell, three-dimensional. It's a bright, gleaming gold with linear blue accents, and three curved rays protrude out past the DJ's shoulders, one on each side and the third directly on top. There's no discernable opening for the man's mouth so Sanji reasons there must be a microphone inside of the thing, but that clear design flaw also sets him wondering how the guy isn't dead. The Dreadnaught is like an oven, now, filled with hookah smoke and smashing body heat, and the DJ must be straight up roasting in his thick robes and headdress.
(A golden mask, ripe lemon skins, raw honey, activated yeast, kashkaval cheese, winter squash, chunked pineapples, olive oil, egg yolks. Crème de banane.)
The DJ yells a third time, the same question, and more howling follows. Several (probably drunk) women and men fall to their knees in the middle of the throng. "God200!" The whole building roars back, screeches overlapping and each yell lasting a different length of time. It's like nails on a chalkboard and skidding tires on pavement and rabbits being torn apart by foxes all at once.
"I can't hear you!"
"God200!"
Sanji just watches on, oddly enthralled by the sight as everyone—inebriated to hell and completely sober alike—goes Pentecostal, arms waving and chests heaving and throats cracking, and only when the music gets louder again does the strange sort of worship even begin to die down.
Something nudges his side and when he turns to see Gin staring at him, amused, he realizes he's frozen halfway through making a drink. "It's wild, yeah?" the bartender chuckles, and Sanji snorts. It takes a moment for him to remember what he's supposed to be mixing and who it's for, but one of the swaying young men at the counter calls out a reminder and Sanji picks back up where he'd left off with a shouted apology that's only partially genuine.
Once the customer has his booze, Sanji starts on the next in line, and yells, "It's like you're hosting a cult," in Gin's general direction—who just laughs again, throwing his head back.
"That sounds about right!"
"Jesus Christ."
The night continues like that, a cycle of hollered half-conversation over music that, to Sanji, all sounds the same. The whole place smells like sweat and sweet tobacco, and Sanji's convinced his suit will stink like bad decisions for the rest of its life—something he doesn't really want to explain to Zeff or anyone else.
The DJ, God200, incites the crowd at sporadic intervals that don't make any sort of sense—because as far as he can tell the chaos never once lets up enough to warrant rekindling—and Sanji burns through almost a full pack of cigarettes by the time two am rolls around and people finally start stumbling out into the darkness. It's a slow trickle that Sanji doesn't notice at first, too wrapped up in trying to juggle alcohol and credit cards and his own pounding headache, but when he realizes he hasn't heard the DJ speak for a full half hour he finally looks up to see that the deformed black mass has disappeared from the scaffolding. With the provocateur gone, there's nothing left to hold the mob in place, even as the shit-that-might-be-music continues to play.
Around two-thirty, Sanji sets a finished glass of something neon pink and sticky on the counter and turns to take the next order, only to find that there's no one left waiting. The throng isn't pressed up against the bar anymore, and has shrunk to the point where he can actually see part of the wood floor through the haze of hookah smoke and vibrating feet. When he turns to Gin, the bartender already has the sink running—something Sanji hadn't been able to hear over the noise—and there's a sign in the middle of the counter that says BAR CLOSED that Sanji thinks might have materialized out of thin air.
All at once, it's like the adrenaline high he hadn't even realized he'd been riding cuts off dead—the jarring end of a roller coaster as it jerks to a halt at the station—and a brick wall of exhaustion hits him full in the face. Sanji does his best not to physically sag and fails miserably.
Gin must see it, too, because he looks Sanji up and down with one eyebrow raised and an expression on his face that's almost guilty. "Go home," he says, and for the first time in an eternity he's not shouting. "The doors shut in half an hour, and all that's left to do after that is kick people out and clean this shit up. You've done more than enough already."
Sanji just shakes his head. "I'm fine, thirty minutes won't kill me," he replies, but his voice sounds rough even to his own ringing ears. Gin keeps scrutinizing him, like he's trying to figure out whether or not Sanji's saying that to keep his promise or because he's a masochist, and when the bartender doesn't immediately respond Sanji half expects to be bodily thrown out of the place by one of the temporary bouncers. In an effort to prove his point, he sort of shoves him away from the sink with his hip and snatches the gooey glass from his hand in one jerky, frustrated motion, ready to set about washing the drinkware with all the resentful vigor of a stubborn teenage boy.
Predictably, he doesn't get far.
As soon as Gin regains his balance, he lets out a kind of exasperated noise and reaches over to shut off the sink. Sanji growls out a low, Oi! in response and tries to get the water running again, but Gin doesn't budge and the iron grip he has on the faucet stays firmly in place. "If you want to stay, that's on you. But at least take a fuckin' five minute break before you keel over. Go get a breath of fresh air or some shit. You haven't stopped working since you got here," he bites, and the concern in his voice makes Sanji even angrier.
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." Gin punctuates the sentence by jamming his elbow sharply into Sanji's ribs, effectively removing him from in front of the sink.
Sanji yelps and has to grab the edge of the counter to stay upright because holy shit, that hurt, and growls, "What the fuck?" the second he's standing again. The bartender doesn't even blink.
"Five minutes, asshole. If you're still alive after that, you can stick around." There's no room for argument in his tone, but it's more of a challenge than a threat and that sends Sanji spiraling down from riled up to royally pissed off in less than an instant.
Without hesitation, he slams the dirty glass down on the counter and snaps, "Fucking fine, you piece of shit."
Halfway to the back door, however, he hears Gin erupt into a fit of barely-stifled laughter over the music, and Sanji curses so loud several people nearby skirt out of his way.
In an effort to maintain some shred of dignity despite the fact that he'd been played like a damn guitar, Sanji resists the urge to stomp back toward the bar and kick Gin in the balls. Instead, he continues on his way, weaving through the kitchens and out the employee entrance, muttering profanity under his breath without stopping for a real gulp of air. As soon as the door slams shut behind him, however, the sudden almost-quiet of the dark parking lot startles him into an abrupt silence.
For a brief moment he panics, worried the pounding speakers finally burst his ear drums and he's gone deaf, but someone three car rows into the blackness lets out a high-pitched giggle and oh, okay—he can still hear. The music is thrumming through the walls of the Dreadnaught, there are crickets somewhere in the shrubs nearby, and his footsteps actually make noise when he shuffles. Good.
Now relatively alone, however, his anger and embarrassment start to fade a bit by bit, and before he realizes it he's sitting on the steps that lead down to the barely-visible parking area.
(A dark car lot, mission figs, squid ink, black sesame seeds, aged garlic, dried seaweed, ground coffee, mashed turtle beans, licorice candy. Salmiakki Koskenkorva.)
Somewhere between the sink and here he'd managed to lose his cigarette, so he heaves a heavy sigh—the kind of all-consuming huff that shakes his entire body—and fumbles for one of the few he has left. As he's lighting it, part of him idly hopes the place doesn't catch on fire because of a misplaced filter slowly smoldering on the wood floor. The other half, of course, wants to laugh while the building burns.
Suddenly, a chorus of screams rises up from inside, and Sanji jumps a little, nearly dropping his lighter in the process. Even through the door, he can hear chaos erupt as the DJ's voice thunders through the speakers—loud enough to pick up but not to the point where he can understand what's being said—and Sanji blinks, tired and confused. Hadn't the guy left already? Or had he just been taking a break?
Whatever.
After a few moments the music returns, and Sanji is left staring blankly out into the night as half a dozen taxis start rolling in from the highway. He manages to convince himself that he'll go back inside as soon as he finishes smoking, but one cigarette turns into three and he doesn't even realize he's started dozing off until a voice to his right says, "If you drop that on your clothes you'll probably die in your sleep."
Sanji's head jerks up, jostling ash onto his slacks in the process, and despite a valiant effort to brush it off as quickly as possible all he manages to do is smudge the mess even more across his thigh, grinding it into the fabric. "Well, shit." If his suit had been even the least bit salvageable before, there's probably no hope for it now.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." (Whoever it is, however, doesn't sound the least bit apologetic at all.)
The shadowy glow of the parking lot lights makes the man standing at the bottom of the steps more a silhouette than a person, and Sanji's half-groggy brain reasons that he must have walked around the building from the front entrance because the back door hadn't opened. He doesn't recognize whoever it is (although that isn't a surprise, Sanji thinks—the whole place has been filled to the brim with random strangers all night) but the outline of wild, dark, frizzy hair looks vaguely familiar. (Maybe he'd served him drinks earlier?) The guy has one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around the strap of a shoulder bag, and his head is tilted slightly to the side like he's watching to see what Sanji will do next. There's an amused note to his voice, too, that makes Sanji think he might be smirking and would probably laugh if he really did set himself on fire, but Sanji can't see his face so he isn't really sure.
When Sanji doesn't answer, however, and just kind of blinks at him in the darkness for a long, drawn-out moment instead, the silhouette steps forward a little. "Are you okay, man?" He sounds genuinely concerned, quiet and hesitant, so Sanji thinks he must make a pretty fucking sad picture sitting here half dead on the steps behind a temporary night club. Ruined suit and cigarette butt surroundings and sticky dress shoes and sweat-matted hair and dark circles and shaking hands.
Sanji nods stiffly, heaving a sigh as he tries to shake off the weird groggy funk he's let himself fall prey to. Stubbing out the half-finished cigarette on the concrete steps, he mutters, "Yeah, I'm fine," but there's a kind of rough, defeated undertone to it that betrays his words. The silhouette doesn't look particularly convinced if the way his posture—half reaching out toward Sanji with one hand, fingers slightly curled in the air, while the other is tucked near his chest, near his heart—doesn't change is any indication.
Before the guy can say anything, though, the door behind Sanji slams open, and only then does Sanji realize he can't hear the music anymore.
"Oh shit, I thought you went home," Gin says, and when Sanji turns around he sees the bartender standing in the doorway with a genuinely surprised expression on his face and two industrial-size, completely full trash bags in each hand. He's still got one foot half-raised from kicking open the door, too, and Sanji kind of hopes he falls over, balancing on a single leg like that.
"You said if I survived a five minute break I could stick around. You didn't actually specify what I had to do if I stayed," Sanji bites back, but his words don't have much of an edge. He'd gone back on his word, left his sort-of-friend alone in the wild for... however long now—at least half an hour, maybe more—when he'd promised to help, and even though he knows Gin doesn't blame him in the least Sanji can't help but feel like an ass.
Gin sighs and shakes his head a little, then starts picking his way down toward the parking lot, careful not to smack Sanji in the face with the trash bags. "Yeah, that's true. No use sticking around anymore, though." The guy Sanji had been talking to skirts out of the way when Gin makes it to the bottom of the steps, and as he passes Gin hands whoever it is two of the bags.
Although Sanji wouldn't put it past Gin to force menial chores onto random strangers without a word, the guy doesn't protest and just kind of rolls with it, so Sanji wonders if they really do know each other. He runs down the list of Dreadnaught employees he knows in his head, but he still can't really see the man clearly in the darkness and he doesn't have every single person working under Gin memorized in the first place, anyway. Sanji just kind of squints after the two of them as they make their way toward the dumpster and wonders why he cares so much. Stupid shitty tired brain latching onto stupid shitty irrelevant curiosities.
Mystery Guy continues on toward the rows of cars after he dumps the bags, leaving Gin to walk back and pity the miserable chef on his own. Sanji doesn't give him the chance and asks, "What time is it?" before Gin can say anything. It's too dark to see his watch properly and he's not about to blind himself with the light of his cell phone screen.
"Almost four," Gin replies, leaning against the railing as Sanji just kind of blinks at him. (No, that can't be right—had he really dozed off out here? Well, fuck.) "Are you okay to drive?"
Sanji nods, then, and tries to ignore the fact that Gin doesn't look particularly convinced. By the time he hauls himself back on his feet, Sanji's distinctly aware of the fact that his ass has gone numb and he's actually kind of chilly, and he can't help but sway a little on his feet. "Yeah, I'm fine," Sanji huffs, although he's not really sure he's trying to reassure the bartender or himself.
Gin rolls his eyes.
(Fifteen minutes later Gin has taken his keys and shoved him in the back of a cab, shouting promises to drop his car off at the Baratie tomorrow over Sanji's loud, creative, and venomously colorful protests.)
"We're doing orange and green this week."
Zeff huffs at Sanji, who's hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook on the Baratie kitchen's pick up table, and says, "We did that two weeks ago, brat. Think of something else." Sanji doesn't even glance at the head chef. He just says rigid, staring down at his own scrawled writing as he chews on the end of a pencil.
It's early Sunday morning, now—le jour du l'enfer and the only day of the week the restaurant isn't open for guests—and already Sanji has been in the kitchen for hours. He's surrounded by proof of that, two dozen tasting dishes lined up in a half circle large enough to cover most of the table, each a bright dichromate artwork framed in gleaming white-glazed ceramic. They're aesthetically beautiful, somehow both simplistic and unique in presentation, and Sanji knows each one is a delicacy.
He also knows that none will make this week's menu.
There is something wrong about each, something off—something imperfect. And nothing imperfect will ever leave his kitchen. They will be eaten, yes—if not by him than by the rest of the staff set to arrive by ten, an hour from now—but that will be it.
"I don't care. Most of the fruits and vegetables in season right now are orange and green, so that's what I'm going to work with," Sanji replies, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He bumps his glasses in the process, tilting them enough to blur his vision and send a sudden spike of dizziness shooting into the front of his skull, and for a brief moment he squeezes his eyes shut, willing it away.
If Zeff notices, he doesn't comment.
Instead, Sanji hears the fabric of his clothes shift as the old man heaves another sigh. "Alright, fine. If we're redoing that, someone will need to make a run down to Franky's place," he grunts, and Sanji nods absently in agreement. Zeff pauses, then, like he's waiting for something, but when Sanji doesn't comment he adds, "Meaning you, squirt." Sanji opens his eyes and turns to glare hard at the head chef, who just gives him a stern eyebrow raise in response. It's the kind of expression a shitty dad might give to his shitty kid—frustrated and scolding and concerned all at once. "You've been here since four-thirty—don't think I'm not fully aware of that—and you haven't gone out for one of your damn smoke breaks in two hours. You'll kill everyone else as soon as they get here if you don't take some time."
Still scowling, Sanji stands up straight, spine popping in the process. His left foot is numb where he'd been leaning all of his weight against it, but he ignores the feeling. "I have work to do."
"So then do it. You can't come up with a menu if you don't have squat to work with," Zeff replies, just enough condescension in his tone to set Sanji seething.
"Send someone else."
"You'll just bite their damn head off when they get back for gettin' the wrong thing or the wrong quality or the wrong quantity, and then kick 'em out for whatever other bullshit excuse you can come up with."
Sanji opens his mouth to argue but finds he doesn't actually have a retort that wouldn't be some kind of lie, so he just clicks his jaw shut and growls. Zeff raises both eyebrows, then, and after a brief staring contest Sanji knows he's going to lose before it even starts, Sanji yells incoherently at the stove and grabs his notebook. As he leaves the kitchen, he makes sure his stomps are as loud and annoying as possible, not giving two shits about the fact that he sounds like a damn six year old in the process.
Twenty minutes, however, he's nowhere near the farm.
Instead, he's sitting in the Dreadnaught parking lot, car idling as he tries to figure out whether or not anyone is actually in the building. It's fucking early—too early for the bar, a lunch-and-dinner sort of establishment, to be open—and he isn't even sure he wants to go inside at all. He has no idea why he's here, really.
(That's a lie, though—he knows exactly what he's doing. The same dichotomy of self that keeps him going back to the Baratie when all he wants to do is run away has him fleeing his responsibilities now, too. He'll do what he needs to do and show up in time to get the day's work done, but he hates being told what to do—hates it hates it hates it—so even though his stomach is churning and he thinks he might throw up, he knows he won't leave until he's satisfied with today's streak of futile rebellion.)
As it turns out, Gin is around.
Sanji spots him through one of the windows, sweeping the floors, and that's enough of an invitation as any. The front entrance is locked, so he makes his way through the back door instead. He's never been here this early in the morning—and on Sunday, no less—so the emptiness of the usually bustling kitchens catches him a little off guard. The first time he'd seen the place devoid of shouting and sizzling meat had been on Tuesday, but at the time he'd been too pissed off and tired to really take it in. Now, though, the absolute silence of the place reminds him too much of the Baratie, so he makes his way through at a pace that's not quite a run, but not quite a walk, either.
Gin doesn't even blink when he emerges, only barely glancing up from his broom. There's soft jazz playing throughout the main room, another stark contrast to the usual chaos of the bar. When there are customers around, some local classic rock station plays the same sixty songs on loop for hours, and Sanji can't help but feel like he's in the wrong place for the second time in five minutes.
After a beat of quiet, Gin drawls, "You come to make me breakfast or some shit?" and Sanji snorts, effectively snapping out of the sort of melancholy stupor he'd slid into without noticing.
"...Eh, why the fuck not?" he replies, shrugging a little. It won't take long to whip something up—another twenty minutes at most—and that should be enough misplaced productivity to get him back on the road again. He doesn't bother asking Gin what he wants, well aware that the bartender will eat whatever he cooks without complaint—and thoroughly enjoy it, too.
He's already rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up, halfway back to the kitchens, however, when Gin suddenly speaks up in a kind of oh shit I forgot tone. At first, Sanji thinks it's directed at him, but apparently he's not the only guest in the bar.
"Oi, Usopp—you want anything? Usopp!"
Sanji feels like he's a little justified in not noticing the guy, because he's seated at the farthest back table, completely wedged in one corner of the room. Completely wedged, the back of his seat pressed against the wall with the table boxing him inside the alcove. He blends in, too—dark hair and tan skin almost the same color as the heavily-stained walnut paneling in the shadows where the morning sunlight doesn't quite reach. He's wearing a pale yellow long-sleeved t-shirt that doesn't stand out much, either, and his frizzy curls are draped around his upper body, covering his face and whatever he's hunched over, making him look more like an unkempt mess than any kind of actual person.
Sanji is immediately hit with a wave of déjà vu at the whole picture, like he's seen it a hundred times before, but he can't figure out where or when.
(Dark brown hair, pumpernickel seeds, roasted almond skins, ground cacao powder, unpolished rice, charred catfish, raw sugar. Black chocolate stout.)
When Gin calls what's presumably his name, however, the young man lifts his head and squints around, revealing the twin ends of a headphone wire that disappears into his hair. Gin waves a hand in Sanji's direction, rerouting his attention to the chef, and repeats the question after Usopp removes his earbuds.
The guy thinks for a moment, and then frowns. "Do I have to pay for it?" Sanji shakes his head slightly, not bothering to verbally respond because he's busy lighting a fresh cigarette, and Usopp breaks into a grin. "Awesome. Whatever you make is fine with me, then. Thanks!" he beams, before turning his attention back down to the thing in front of him—a notebook, maybe.
Sanji takes a lazy drag and studies Usopp for a moment longer, trying to figure out where he's seen this guy before. Nothing comes to mind, though, so he hums low in mild irritation as he exhales and then gives up, turning back toward the kitchens to get breakfast started with whatever he can find.
Given that the place is a bar and grill, sweet creams and fruits are notably absent from the storage rooms and freezers, so he settles for prepping something savory. Halfway through collecting eggs and black pepper and spinach leaves and white onions and potatoes and red peppers and Monterey jack cheese, though, he realizes there's no flour, either. The quiche becomes frittata, and it works out for the best because scrapping the pastry crust halves time it takes to finish two portions.
Gin is doing inventory behind the bar when Sanji returns to the main room, a plate in each hand and a dishtowel over one shoulder, and Usopp hasn't budged an inch. He's hunched over the notebook in front of him again, barely visible under his own impressive mane, and for some reason the sight looks so integral to the layout of the room—so oddly familiar—that Sanji nearly forgets he's there and walks right past, subconsciously half-convinced he's a fixture of the decoration. Four paces from the bar Sanji realizes what he's done and falters, not entirely sure why his brain decided to block out an entire person, but he plays it off like he'd been planning to give Gin his breakfast first all along. Neither man seems to notice.
The bartender doesn't even look up when Sanji sets his plate on the counter, too busy mumbling numbers under his breath as he jots down stock notes on pad of graph paper that's seen better days. Just to piss him off (because that's what not-friends are for), Sanji heaves an exaggerated sigh loud enough to carry through the entire room, blowing smoke directly at his face in the process, and Gin flips him off without pause.
"You're welcome, asshole," Sanji mutters. The bartender just rolls his eyes.
Usopp remains similarly unfazed when Sanji approaches with his food, but as soon he sets the frittata on the table the guy jerks—clearly startled—and whips his head up fast enough to hit the back of it against the wall behind him with a loud crack. It catches Sanji off guard, too, and he almost bites clean through his cigarette at the noise, wincing as Usopp shouts, "Shit!" and curls into a sort of propped-up fetal position with his head in his hands and his eyes screwed shut. "Shit."
Now that he's right up next to him, Sanji can see that he has his headphones in again—likely the reason he hadn't heard Sanji until it was too late. One ear has been knocked out by the force of the blow, though, and it's tangled rather impressively in his hair.
"Shit, you okay?" Sanji asks, still a little startled, just as Gin calls Don't go breakin' my walls from across the room at exactly the same time.
At that, Usopp looks up—eyes watery and face twisted in a painful glare—and shouts, "Fuck your walls!" at a volume that might have been intimidating if his voice hadn't cracked midway through.
Sanji hears Gin snort, though, and without an ounce of sympathy the bartender drawls, "Nah, that'd be a pain to clean up," right back. Usopp lets out a kind of frustrated, pained wail in response and lifts one hand to flip Gin off around Sanji, who's still frozen directly in front of his table.
Now that Usopp is mostly upright, Sanji has a better view of the notebook he's been hunched over for the past however-long. He doesn't intend to look—not really—but it's right in front of him and he can't help the fact that it catches his eye. And oh—oh wow. This kid is talented.
The notebook, as it turns out, is a sketchbook—one of those large, wide ones with thick, off-white paper and a wire spiral at the top to hold it all together; expensive, Sanji thinks, although he doesn't know much about traditional art so he can't really be sure—and the page facing up is covered with a half-finished sketch that's nothing short of a goddamn masterpiece. It's the Dreadnaught main room, the same one he's standing in now, and it's so exact Sanji might think the drawing were a photograph if it had any color. The details are phenomenal—right down to the individual shape of each tiny liquor bottle lined up behind the bar and the shadowy scorch marks across the floor near the front door from a Backdraft-gone-wrong two years ago—and there's even a rough anatomically-inclined set of squares off to one side, the outline of what might be Gin going about his daily work when the piece is finished.
Usopp, oblivious of Sanji's stare, scoots the notebook to the side and reaches for the plate placed just within reach, and the action snaps Sanji's attention back to reality. He can't help wanting to pick up the sketchbook and scrutinize it, to drink in every minute pencil stroke and shaded smudge, because he's never seen anything quite like it before. But he doesn't—he doesn't even know this guy, and even though it's a little odd that he's sitting in the restaurant before it's technically opened, he's just a customer that he'll probably never see again.
"Holy shit, this is really great!" Usopp pipes up suddenly around a mouthful of egg, and Sanji realizes he's still standing awkwardly in front of his table. He should probably move—actually, he should probably leave. It's been almost an hour since he left the Baratie, and he does have work to do.
In an effort to play off the fact that he'd been staring, Sanji nods decisively. "Damn right it is," he says, and then turns around like he'd been only been standing around for Usopp's verdict. He hears the guy chuckle a little—a light sound, carefree in a way that Sanji thinks he's never really heard before, not with the life he lives—and he waves a hand over his shoulder as some kind of response to... whatever that was.
He's halfway back to the kitchen when Usopp mumbles, "Your food is always really good, though, so I probably should have expected that," around another bite, and Sanji kind of falters.
Although he's never really hidden the fact that he visits the Dreadnaught more than he probably should, more often than not he spends his time back in the kitchens, leaving and entering through the back door without ever making his way through the main room. His time at the bar counter itself is proportionally low, not enough for anyone outside of the restaurant staff to realize he's a regular, but in all the time he's spent here he's never once seen Usopp. He's pretty sure he hasn't, at least.
Gin, who has also started in on his meal, pipes up at Usopp's statement. "I'm half inclined to offer your ass a job, but I know you'll never take it," he laughs, shaking his head. "You got any idea what having a Michelin chef on staff would do to the reputation of this place? I'd be fuckin' rich."
Sanji snorts, shoving both hands in his pockets, and starts walking again. "I never asked to be added to the book, you know," he says as Usopp lets out a sort of pained choking noise.
"Oh my god, you're in the Michelin Guide? Sanji, what the fuck?"
When Sanji turns to blink at him, Usopp has both arms flailing around like the only way he could possibly process that new tidbit of information is with outright physical panic, and his wild hair seems to reflect the emotion, somehow frizzed up even more than it had been just a few minutes ago. But all that's running through Sanji's head is How the hell do you know my name?, a question he voices with a little more bite than he intends.
From the bar, Gin chokes out a loud laugh, and, as Sanji watches, Usopp's expression shifts from shock to unabashed hurt, like he's straight up wounded the guy or something, and Sanji almost (almost, but not quite) feels bad for asking,. Gin finally gets his wheezing under control and calls, "Wow, I knew you spent most of your time wrapped up in masochistic self-hatred, but I didn't think you were that fuckin' dense, man."
What the fuck?
Usopp, still looking a little too much like he's been stepped on, frowns deeper. "I guess it's okay that you don't know who I am. We've only actually talked once, I think," he sighs, turning back to his food.
Still thoroughly confused (and a little pissed off that no one has bothered to explain what's going on), Sanji just sort of stares at the guy for another moment and says, "Uh, sorry," in a tone that's only partially sincere. Usopp waves it off with a shrug.
At the stilted exchange, Gin starts laughing again, and Sanji shoots a glare in his general direction.
"Don't feel too bad, Usopp," the bartender says sarcastically, and when Sanji glances back at Usopp's table he sees the guy roll his eyes. "You're just a customer, and hot shots like him ain't got time for keepin' up with who they feed."
And that really does set Sanji off (although, he thinks, that had probably been Gin's intention), so he whirls on Gin and spits, "Shut the fuck up," with so much venom he hears Usopp kind of squeak.
Gin doesn't bat an eye, though, and just shoots Sanji a lazy middle finger in response. "It might not be your intention, but you can't deny the fact that it's true," he says, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. "You come in every couple of days 'cause you can't stand the way your place is run, but you don't act any different once you're here. I've said it before and I'll say it again, man—it's messing with your head."
"Fuck off."
"Your insults are especially creative today," Gin drawls back, unfazed. "But seriously. Name one customer you've served at the Baratie who wasn't a damn food critic."
"I swear to fucking God—"
But Gin just waves him off and turns back to the racks of liquor behind him, resuming his inventory count and effectively ignoring Sanji from then on. Sanji roars in frustration, irrationally enraged because he hates that Gin is right, hates himself because Gin hit the damn nail on the head, and hates that he can't justifiably kick the guy's gut for just stating a fact. Clouds are white, flaming shots are dangerous, and Sanji is a hypocrite of the highest degree.
Not entirely sure what to do but well aware that if he sticks around any longer, he'll either break something or hurt someone, Sanji spits out his cigarette and stubs it on the wood floor out of spite, before kicking open the damn kitchen door with enough force to slam it back into the opposite wall with a sharp crack!
Usopp yelps again, maybe, but Sanji doesn't particularly care that's he's scared the guy three times now, too focused on getting the fuck out.
He'd come to piss off Zeff and cool down a little from the morning's stress, and the exact opposite had happened—at least on the latter's account. Not for the first time, Sanji considers just fucking off for good. Just driving for four goddamn days without a single glance back, because fuck this—fuck this shit so fucking much—but the reality is that running away is a shitty plan, because he knows—he fucking knows—it's damn near impossible to run away from himself.
When he reaches the stone steps out behind the restaurant, he has to stop because he's shaking and he needs something—a cigarette or a drink or a punch to the face—and doesn't think he can take another step without exploding. He settles for a nicotine fix, because that's what he's got on hand and he's not about to walk back inside and demand alcohol, but actually getting one proves difficult because he's having trouble getting his lighter started because his hands can't keep steady and—and oh, fuck this.
He hurls the lighter halfway across the parking lot, but the satisfaction he gets when he hears it shatter against the pavement is short-lived because without it, he's royally fucked for a smoke.
Well, shit.
For a moment, he just kind of stares into the morning light, anger slowly fading. The sky is an impressive blue, clear and sharp and almost blinding after the dim haze of the Dreadnaught, and he wonders idly if he should take the beautiful day as some kind of omen. A sign that good things are coming (for once). But he doesn't believe in that shit, it's fucking stupid—so after a moment he shakes his head and sighs, deep and heavy and all-consuming.
This is going to be a long day.
This already has been a long day. And it's not going to end any time soon.
Resigned, now—and more than a little exhausted—he starts making his way down the steps. Distractions aside, he's more than sure Zeff called ahead to Franky and Robin's place to let them know he'd be showing up soon, and if he doesn't get there eventually one or the other might call to see if he'd died in a car accident. A few steps out toward his car, however, he hears the building's back door open.
"Sanji!"
To his surprise, it's not Gin (although Gin wouldn't come running after him in the first place, really). Instead, when he turns around, Sanji sees Usopp standing at the top of the steps, looking wide-eyed and frazzled.
"Yes?" Sanji bites out a little harder than he intends to, and he almost winces at the tone of his own voice. Really, he has no reason to be angry at Usopp—the guy had done nothing wrong. But he can't help but feel a sort of misplaced resentment toward him, maybe just because of what he represents.
Usopp, however, doesn't seem deterred by the venom. "Are you okay?"
It's a purely earnest question—so startlingly genuine that Sanji can't do anything but blink at Usopp's concerned expression for a few seconds. Then, stiltedly, he nods. The unlit cigarette is still in his mouth, he realizes, and he sucks on it out of habit. The lack of smoke makes him choke a little, an odd sensation, like when a person leans forward in a car to counterbalance the expected momentum of its motion, only to find that the vehicle stays very much in place. "Mm fine," he mumbles, strained.
Usopp frowns in response. "I don't believe you."
"Well, that's not my problem, is it?"
Usopp tilts his head to the side slightly and crosses his arms. "No, I guess it isn't," he says casually after a moment, shrugging. Sanji isn't exactly sure how to respond to that, so he doesn't. Not directly, anyway.
Instead, he looks at Usopp—really looks at him—and is struck once again by the familiarity of his face, of his goddamn hair, of his shoulders. And it's sort of irritating that he can't put a finger on where he's seen him before. He feels like he's missing something so incredibly obvious it could knock him out cold and he'd never be the wiser. A blow the side of the head from directly in front of him and boom, there he goes. Goodbye world, goodbye Sanji.
Once again, though, nothing comes to mind, so without really thinking about the question (and still a little surprised that Usopp had come after him at all), he says, "Why am I supposed to know you?" without an ounce of remorse. It's already been made clear, he thinks, that he doesn't, so at this point Usopp's feelings on the matter have been dealt with, and are largely irrelevant. (Probably.)
Again, however, Usopp just shrugs. "I'm in here every day, so I see you whenever you're around. I think you're the only other regular who comes even close to visiting as much as I do."
Sanji blinks, then blinks again. And oh. Oh. Oh holy shit.
Well that sort of makes sense.
And now, with that in mind, Sanji thinks hard about all the time he's spent in the Dreadnaught. More often than not he's furiously working in the kitchens, but every moment spent drowning himself in existential angst at the bar has been punctuated by the background image of Gin wandering around yelling at people and wild, ridiculous customers and—
—and some guy sitting in the corner, hunched over his table. Never with food, just maybe a drink, working away at whatever is in front of him. Drawing, maybe, Sanji thinks now.
And on those days when he'd come to cook, too—when he'd leave the kitchen for two minutes to deliver someone's meal on a short-staffed day, or when he'd left the kitchens for a drink or for a smoke. Or when he'd left the building altogether, sometimes through the front door instead of the back. That guy is always there, blending in with the walls, observing and not and then observing again.
"Holy fuck," Sanji says.
And then Usopp looks at him like he's just grown seven arms, and he throws his head back, and he laughs. He laughs loud and low and carefree, like Sanji has just told the best damn joke in the world. He laughs until he's gasping, clutching his sides, wheezing from the bottom of his chest. He laughs until Sanji starts to get annoyed, and when Sanji snaps Oi!, he laughs some more.
It's like the chuckle he'd given when Sanji walked away the first time, only amplified, multiplied exponentially.
He laughs like the clear blue sky and the bright yellow sun. Like the breeze in the air, like the warmth from the pavement underfoot, and the distant sound of birds from the nearby shrubs. Like nothing Sanji's ever heard, he thinks—different from the cursing construction workers at the Dreadnaught center table or Gin's sardonic chuckles or Zeff's rough bellows that promise a slew of backhanded compliments, insults more than those, soon after he's calmed himself.
So when Usopp catches his breath and smiles at Sanji, all teeth and gleaming light, and asks, "So where are you going?" the only thing he can answer is a slightly confused:
"I have absolutely no idea anymore."
(Blue skies, crushed gammarus lobster shells, borage, bluefish, indigo milk caps, blue sweet potatoes, concord grapes, lingcod, blueberries. Curaçao liquor.)