Death.
The first time Sanji comes across its scent, he's ten, a young cook working aboard the Orbit. He carries a platter of lemon garlic shrimp. It's his own creation, his very first as a licenced cook. Already he shows promise. He's added a splash of coconut milk―despite the head chef's rejection― to the dish, enhancing the shrimps piquant flavor as it couples for a richer taste. The tray shakes on the tips of his undexterous fingers when he passes her.
She's a kind elder woman―mother of the ship's captain, a plump, stout lady with wire gray hair pulled back into a neat bun. She dotes on the young Sanji, pinching his cheeks with her frail fingers, often bringing him close into tight embraces. Sanji likes to drink the woman's scent, lavender and oranges woven into the wool of her loose knitted sweaters.
Sanji passes her in terse greeting when a faint whiff of the woman brings about an attack on his nasal cavities.
His face contorts in disgust.
His dish crashes loudly on the floor.
It's unlike anything he's smelt before.
It is a vile, putrid stench, a sickening blend of everything most foul. The scent clambers through his innards where it settles in the bile of his stomach, emptying its contents in violent regurgitation. The stench burns him. It blackens the edges of his peripheral vision, it clouds his lungs, a residual tar left upon his exhale. It then resides within his entrails, nauseating him for the hours to come.
Sanji lays on his bed in a daze, constrained under his too hot sheet.
"It's strange. . .you're a very healthy boy. . ." the woman mutters, mostly to herself.
She nears him, Sanji swallows back a gag.
"What brought this on?"
Sanji breaks from her gaze. It wouldn't be very gentlemanly of him to tell off a lady, especially in regards to her less than pleasant odor. He opts to breath open mouthed, allowing the rancid air to pass in a less lethal manner. He's shocked to discover he's actually pleased when the woman leaves his side. She passes through his door, and for a moment, Sanji thinks she's engulfed in darkness, a murky black that condenses into a mist like substance, wisping around her frame.
She dies three days later.
The second time Sanji crosses the scent, he wastes away atop the wave eroded rock. He is but flesh and bones, hunger seizing his being. It hollows his cheeks, it steals his skins youthful, elastic glow, it breaks away at his muscles and weakens his once strong, calcium enriched bones. The smell of death is faint, but it's little comfort. The murky black returns, billowing in waves. It looms, teasing the residents of the rock. It pokes and prods, never quite nearing as a permanent result.
Sanji glares at the gloom that taints the atmosphere, resilient and defiant. He never accepts death as a mercy, but as a burden, an obstacle that stands in the way of his dream.
'I won't die.'
'Not before I find the All Blue.'
'I'm hungry. . .'
He survives starvation and has possibly conquered death (he sees the prior as a more noteworthy achievement). With his dreams discarded and no place to call home, Zeff takes him in and he spends his youth working aboard the old man's ship, the Baratie.
Sanji polishes his skills as a chef, though, much to his dismay, isn't given many chances to shine. The restaurant ship finds itself short-staffed in their waiting department, the delinquent-like behaviour of the other chefs scaring off all potential applicants―the damn unrefined bastards. It comes as no surprise when Zeff forces Sanji to take on a part-time position.
He's not as cordial as Zeff would like him to be, but he's at least amenable to the ladies.
Various customers walk through the doors of the Baratie, diversified in age, race, and gender.
Through his waiting tables, Sanji learns one immutable fact: the scent of death is nondiscriminatory.
In retrospect, his epiphany was not so much an 'epiphany'. As most knew, death was blind to its takings. Yet as Sanji breezes through tables, takes on the orders of his customers, and partakes in idle conversation, he realizes the stench is always apparent. It may drape mercilessly over the young and able-bodied while the old and sick remained scentless to its fetid stink. It may hang heavily as one appears to have lived the course of their life, or haze weakly as others begin to show signs of illness. The fact stood: death's scent was a constant.
Sanji tries not to wonder what will be made of his customers―how long before death takes them, if they will return before the strike of their final hour. It's a depressing route of thought and so Sanji tries not to dwell on it too much.
To his credit, Sanji shows an emotion which may or may not be mistaken as a sort of kindness (or, perhaps, sympathy?) to those customers that near death. He makes sure special care is put into their dishes, that desserts are placed on the house, and that his attitude is put in check when serving male customers. These actions raise an eyebrow or two, but Sanji is never questioned.
It's the day Sanji meets the Strawhats everything changes.
He would never willingly admit it, but the four-man crew gives his life new meaning.
His respect for Luffy is limitless.
His appreciation for Nami is eternal.
His bond with Usopp is strong.
His. . .with Zoro. . .it's different with Zoro. He hates the man's guts (with a passion, he might add). His crude manner rubs him the wrong way, his sense of taste, he quickly learns, is as off as his sense of direction (though he suspects the whole shit food/shit cook nonsense is just said to rile Sanji). He's strong enough for Sanji to acknowledge the moss-head as his rival. He's incredibly lazy and vulgar and. . .despite all his personal faults, Sanji revers the idiot swordsman.
'When I decided to be the greatest swordsman in the world I already discarded my life.'
Zoro was willing to die for his dream.
Would Sanji?
Sanji quickly accustoms himself to pirate life. It's a life full of unexpected, never ending adventures. He cooks more than he has his whole life. He picks up on the diverse tastes of his crew. Orange desserts for Nami, spice-based lunches for Usopp, seafood chowders for Zoro―Luffy's stomach is an elastic void that can never be filled by the delicacies of his culinary creations.
It's the happiest he's ever been.
But something dark coils within his core.
It weaves and meshes together, a knot instinctively forms in his gut.
He senses this happiness is not everlasting.
The scent wafts under his nose.
For a moment, it goes unnoticed, Sanji serving the lovely Robin and gorgeous Nami.
"Enjoy your desserts, Nami-swan, Robin-chawn, my dears, my beautiful angels. To grace this ship with your―"
He smells it.
A fierce look replaces his love strewn grin. The scent is faint from the distance, but it's unmistakable. The malicious foulness―death―resides in this ship, blanketing one of his crew mates. But who? Sanji bites down on his cigarette, unnerved eyes scouring the ship. Nami and Robin are exempt from his worry, the fetor not scented within close proximity.
The two women exchange looks of concern as Sanji hastily excuses himself. He dashes at the turn of his heel, hauling his feet across the grass-embedded field deck where he approaches the idiot trio, fists bunched at his sides. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper pause in their play (imitating Franky, he thinks), wary of Sanji's stormy approach.
Usopp shoots Luffy a look. "Luffy, did you steal food again? Don't tell me you ate all the meat?"
"No! I swear! There's still a bit left for you guys."
"Luffy!" Chopper yells, voice quivered with fear.
Sanji stops.
And he sniffs.
A moment passes and his tense shoulders ease, if only slightly. "If it isn't you three. . .Oi, where are Franky and Zoro?"
Chopper answers. "I saw Franky by the aquarium. Zoro's in the crow's nest."
The three watch as Sanji departs.
"What was that about?"
"Sanji's acting strange."
"Seems the same to me."
"He sniffed us!"
Sanji enters the aquarium only to leave at the heavy odor of fish and phytoplankton that stain glass tanks. At the lack of death's grotesque stink, Sanji turns foot at a bewildered cyborg as he heads up deck for the crows nest. His heart hammers, a mantra of no's spoken at a dreading reality. Let it be a fluke, he thinks, but he knows better than to grasp at the silver of hope. Not the marimo.
He bursts through the door, the cacophony of his clambering feet and haggard breathing does not perturb the swordsman's nap. Arms pillowing his face, Zoro lays on polished floors, dumbbells littered at his side. The mid-day sun cascades over his sleeping form, his shadow cast as it fades into its brilliant glow.
The stench hits him like the crack of a whip.
He throws up.