Disclaimer: One Piece does not belong to me, I do not make any money of this, and so on.
Warning/Spoilers: Written for LJ's Paxnirvana's request of snow-related drabbles. Possible spoilers for Sanji's Tragic Past and the Drum Island arc, in the way that it's better to have read/seen them for it to make sense.
Associated Weather
When he was at sea, which was most of the time, Sanji didn't care much about the weather. Sun meant Nami-san would be wearing one of her delightful bath suits, and he was more likely to be called out to rescue their moron of a captain from the sea he'd fallen into again. Rain meant the ladies would keep him company in the galley as he worked on the next meal but so would the rest of the crew, noisy and annoying as they were when he was running short on time or supplies. There were good and bad things to be said about every type of weather, and in the end it balanced out, so he didn't care.
On land, things were different. On land sun meant that the water supply was diminishing. On land rain was cold and threatened to induce sickness on a weakened body. On land fog blocked his sight and forced him to strain his other senses to avoid missing his saving grace.
The shitty old man had tried his best to kick the memories out of him, but all he'd done was teach Sanji how to hide the uneasiness under a layer of bustling hyperactivity. Sanji knew it was stupid, and weak, and illogical. You could only live on fish and rainwater for so long, and he knew that land was were ships were built, wheat and vegetables grown, and cattle bred. Where humans were meant to live, they who were so frail and powerless in front of the immense sea.
He knew, but deep down it put him on edge, every time.
Of course he'd never say it. He'd never tell them that he felt unstable whenever his feet were on solid ground instead of a swaying deck. That every time they ate away from their ship he caught himself trying to figure out how long he could make the food last. That the reason he loved Nami-san so much was that she was just like the waves she was named after and controlled so well, beautiful, temperamental and unpredictable.
That it was grass, not marimo, that the fuckhead's hair reminded Sanji of. That the way he moved when he trained or fought might be stupid and graceless, but it was also the very personification of a landslide, powerful and deadly and unstoppable.
He'd never tell them.
The door opened as he was cutting the last of his vegetables for the evening's stew and trying very hard not to notice that they were just about to reach yet another island.
"Oi, shithead, we're docking. Come help." He turned around with the intent to wave his knife and snap that he was busy and couldn't they do it without him? But when he looked, the moron's cheeks were tinted with red and his hair strewn with melting white. And that, because snow had never come to the dry rock he'd spent so much time on, didn't mean hunger and despair and putting on a front so that his discomfort would pass unnoticed. It meant snowball fights and hot cocoa and the not-so-distant memory of overwhelming relief and pink beauty.
So he nodded with a slight smile, put his knife down, and ignored the marimo's very obviously exaggerated surprise at his lack of aggressiveness as he headed out.
