There's a bit of a reprieve now. This chappie's only eleven pages, but it makes me smile. Thank you so much for the lovely comments you all have been sending me, and I really appreciate the praise and commentary more than you know! Makes me happy. I hope you like this chapter. It's quite a bit angsty, and it'll be that way for a little while, but don't worry. I'll take the icky angst away once it's done serving its purpose. Thanks for sticking with me!

No one had left from the night before. People were sprawled out across the room, passed-out drunk and snoring like foghorns. Luffy's snuffles were nearly drowned out by his face being crushed into the carpet in the living room, and Franky, who snored loud enough to get a rating on the richter scale. Chopper was curled up in a ball on the floor near Luffy, with Usopp hugging him sort of like a teddy-bear, brushing his long nose into the boy's soft mop of hair every now and then. Brooke was propped up against the glass of one of the picture windows, still sitting on the bench of his piano, which was still on, and adding an electric hum to the overall racket in the living room. None of the girls were present, presumably holed up in either Luffy or Chopper's bedrooms, away from the boys and their retarded sleeping habits. Ace and Smoker were more than likely in whichever room the girl's weren't, and woe betide whoever had to wash those sheets. The only one not accounted for was Zoro.

Because he was still asleep in Sanji's bed.

Sanji knew this, because the first thing he'd seen when he had woken up was the marimo's unconscious and surprisingly serene face as he continued to sleep on, unaware of his current surroundings and that Sanji was really, really too close to the other man for anyone to be entirely comfortable. Well, for Sanji to have been comfortable, really, 'cuz the goddamn moss-head had been too busy not being awake to notice anything.

Sanji rubbed his eyes, feeling the ugly grip of hangover seize his brain as he listened to the dripping of his shitty-old coffe maker. He stood barefoot in the relative clarity of his kitchen, grateful, at least, that it seemed to have survived the chaotic wake. Not much could be said for the rest of the damn apartment, though.

Fucking crazy-ass friends.

He didn't have time to fix all this shit. The reading of the old man's will was this afternoon, and Sanji couldn't afford to be wrecked and wrinkled when he strolled in there to find out his entire life was being derailed. And Sanji felt like that was a sensation all too familiar to him at the moment: the feeling of a train slipping off the tracks, careening towards fire and brokenness and certain destruction, except that the train was really just a bad metaphor for Sanji's shitty life, and why was it so impossible for him to simply be in control of things, for once? There had always been someone running his life for as far back as he could remember, whether because he was too young to have anywhere else to go, or because he felt gnawing guilt whenever he remembered someone else's sacrifice. He always seemed to owe someone something. He could never just have his own way, do things the way he wanted them done, because there was always someone other than him to answer to.

And part of him knew he was never going to have that dream restaurant that he pined for so badly. He would have never brought himself to leave the old man if he'd still been alive, and now that he was dead, his will would probably seal Sanji's fate until he joined the geezer in hell. It had been a stupid, childish thing to ever think he'd have his way, but even so…even now…he still felt the pull to break free. Despite how impossible it was. His guilt and feelings of indebtedness to Zeff and the Baratie kept him bound to it all like an unbreakable chain. He dreamed of a place of his own, but – when it came right down to it – he knew he didn't deserve it. After all the pain and loss he'd caused that man, how could Sanji ever think he had any right abandoning him? Abandoning the restaurant that had been the old man's dream? And so it was a trade: Sanji's dream for Zeff's. Because the old man deserved something for all his sacrifice, and that longing for freedom was all Sanji really had to give. And so it was given, freely and without complaint, even as he felt the fire in him die a little whenever the blonde thought of what could have been.

His own restaurant: dead before it ever came to life. That was the price of a life saved. And Sanji paid it, through the heartbreak and the tears and the silent screams that still wailed in his head, that riled for an independence that Sanji wasn't worthy enough to possess. And maybe that had been the source of all his antagonism and competing with the old man; some desperate, half-baked idea that if, one day, Sanji could surpass the head chef, then maybe the old man would give him the green light. The realization that he had nothing left to teach Sanji, and the go-ahead for him to take off and find his own place in the world.

Sanji never did surpass Zeff, though. So what right did he have for ever leaving? Sure, Zeff had yelled at him, belittled him, and told him to get the fuck out of his restaurant; he wasn't wanted or needed, and he should just quit. But Sanji didn't see that as a blessing to leave, so much as it was just Zeff, demonstrating how much he couldn't stand Sanji. And that made it an even bitterer pill to swallow: knowing that not only could he never leave, but that, through it all, his sacrifice wasn't even wanted, much less appreciated. But it was still something he had to do; Sanji's guilt would have it no other way. And his dream restaurant would simply have to stay that: a dream.

I think you'd run a pretty good restaurant…

Sanji frowned at the coffee pot, dripping away with inexcusable slowness.

Where the hell had that come from? He didn't remember anyone saying that, even though the echo of it in his head was definitely another person's voice, one Sanji's ragged brain couldn't quite register, even though the sound of that elusive voice seemed to summon up the foggy images of wine and shouting and scraps of torn fabric clutched in his hand —

-- The fucking marimo.

That's right. Sanji'd been drunk last night. Really durnk, since he ended up in bed with the bastard, woke up with his head in the man's lap, literally, it had been the odd scratch of metal against his face that pulled him out of unconsciousness enough to realize he'd been nosing at the zipper of the fucker's pants, and Sanji groaned just then, knocking his head into the wall near the fridge, and hoping for some sort of brain trauma, because, honestly, this was the last thing Sanji needed right now.

He sort of wanted to murder the bastard. Sneak into the room and kill him while he slept, strangle him, kick his skull 'til it turned to mush. Because he was pretty sure he wasn't going to survive the massive surge of embarrassment that was no doubt to follow the awakening of the shitty swordsman. That green-haired prick would probably come waltzing out of the room, making lewd jokes and insinuating bad, awful things, like how goddamn pathetic Sanji was, and how a little booze turned him into this tragic slut, and the worse part, the absolute pinnacle of fucked up and horrifying, was that Sanji couldn't truly refute any of it.

He knew two things for certain, as he stood there in his kitchen waiting for the fucking coffee, hung-over and vaguely suicidal: he knew from several previous accounts that he had tendencies to become very flirtacious and clingy when drunk, which often tended to lead to bad situations and mortifying apologies due to the affected party the next day, all of which Sanji was very intent on never reliving.

The other thing he knew for a certainty: he didn't remember anything that had happened last night. He'd been too far gone, and while he wasn't therefore really responsible for his actions, marimo-asshole would no doubt make it all his fault. And that was another odd thing: never once, during his drunk and horny escapades that crashed and burned more often than not, had he ever advanced on a man. None of that drunken, closet-homosexual stuff; he had always, always traipsed after a woman when he got too inebriated to figure out when "No" really meant, "Get the hell away from me, you slobbering jackass." But consensual or not, Sanji always managed to pass out cold before anything too damning ever happened, hence his need for soul-crushing apologies the following day. So it made no sense whatsoever that, even if he'd gotten wasted and a little hot under the collar, that he should wake up with anyone in his bed at all, much less the goddamn marimo swordsman.

And yet, there he'd been; curled up to the larger man's frame like some over-grown house cat, burrowing his face into the warm lap where he'd taken shelter, and, despite the throbbing pain in his temples and what felt like an entire sheep's worth of wool in his mouth, feeling fairly relaxed and pleased.

He felt like that, right up to the point where the cold scratch of the zipper finally registered through his sleepy-cloudy haze. And then everything from there on out had been nothing but cold sweats, and heart-stopping panic, and screams reverberating around his skull, and hyperventilating and near-tears, and an unbearably awkward climb over the marimo's sprawled body to get off the bed and out of the room, from which he pretty much sprinted to the sanctity of his kitchen, where Sanji was still standing, hiding, waiting for that goddamn coffee, and dreading the moment Zoro would wake up and systematically ruin what little of his life and pride that could still be salvaged.

Well, at least we had our clothes on, Sanji thought as he stared at his stirring spoon and contemplated gutting himself. That was really the only consolation he had that things hadn't gotten too out of hand, but there was always the chance that the idiot marimo had redressed them after the fact, and Sanji was going to stop thinking about this, because he could feel his brains leaking out his ears and he sort of felt like crying, which really wasn't going to fix anything.

He wanted this to go away.

He wanted to fall back asleep and wake up to find out this had all been a weird, fucked up dream brought on by booze and random neuron-firings.

He wanted to pack up and move to Canada in the next ten minutes, before marimo woke up, before anyone woke up, so even if the bastard told everyone what they'd been up to the night before, Sanji would never have to face them ever again.

He wanted escape. He wanted divine intervention.

He wanted his fucking coffee already, goddammit.

That, and the aspirin he took about an hour ago was starting to wear off, too. Just his shitting luck. He lit a cigarette and damned the marimo to an early grave. It seemed only fair, at this point. Bastard had made a travesty of things.

"Fucking marimo. Hope he gets alcohol poisoning. Hope he swallows his tongue and fucking chokes. Hope he gets an aneurism. Fucking asshole. Fucking ruining everything."

"Good morning to you too, shit-cook," a groggy voice murmured from behind him, and Sanji leapt about three feet out of his skin.

"ZORO!!!" he shouted, whirling around and throwing his hands up in some bizarre karate pose, and Zoro just looked at him like he was a crazed, rabies-infected animal.

"Um?" the swordsman lulled, and it was obviously too early for the idiot to be functioning.

Sanji relaxed out of his defensive position by degrees, but he never actually let his guard down, shock and fright now giving way to a lingering dread of what the idiot was going to say to ruin his life, and when the hammer would fall….

…It seemed to be taking a while. Zoro just side-stepped the silently panicking cook and reached for the coffee pot, pouring out a cup of Sanji's fucking coffee, and moseying out into the living room, kicking Luffy the rest of the way off the couch to make room for himself.

"Oi, what's for breakfast?" he called over his shoulder once he'd found a comfortable spot. Luffy slowly wrapped his arms around Zoro's legs like an octopus and kept sleeping.

Sanji narrowed his eyes. It couldn't be code for something, the asshole always asked what was for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. There was no subtext, no way he could really be implying anything other than the desire to know what there was to eat, but Sanji was just paranoid enough to feel insulted anyway.

"It's one in the fucking afternoon, asshole. Breakfast is long gone."

Zoro heaved a long-suffering sigh. "So then what's for lunch?"

"It's one in the fucking afternoon. Lunch is at twelve sharp, and no later. Idiot."

So Sanji was being difficult, so the fuck what? If Zoro was gonna play mind games, then he was gonna be as big of a dick about things as humanly possible. It was only fair, after all.

There was a low growl from the couch. "I'm gonna pass this off as hang-over and just ignore it. So you're saying there's no food?"

All right, now he was treading on some dangerous ground. Hang-over implied that Sanji'd been drunk last night, and since last night was when…things…may or may not have happened, he was obviously working up to ridiculing Sanji's patheticness. Definitely.

"Whether there's any food is no fucking concern of yours, you goddamn waste of space!"

Zoro turned around slowly, face oddly neutral as his dark eyes studied the cook intently, a stream of differing expressions flicking across his face in minute twitches. He blinked, and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, looking strangely resigned about it. He sighed, and got up from the couch again, taking care to pull his legs from Luffy's grasp as subtley as possible.

"Whatever," he muttered. "Go back to sleep and don't wake up 'til you're tolerable again, Sanji."

"Don't you FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" Sanji shouted, watching with unreserved rage as the marimo wandered over to the bedroom he usually shared with Chopper.

Zoro halted, coffee cup in one hand while the other wrapped around the doorknob. "Cook, I dunno what the hell your problem is, but you need to get over it."

Sanji pretty much busted a blood vessel at that. "GET OVER IT!? HOW THE HELL DO YOU EXPECT ME TO JUST GET THE FUCK OVER --"

His words died in his throat when Zoro finally looked at him again, expression stern, eyes honest, no trace of humor anywhere in his disposition, and the tear in the shoulder of his black sweater stood out sharply against the white of his undershirt, mocking Sanji, reminding him of how he'd woken up with the torn piece of fabric still clutched tightly in his fingers, the bruise on his face throbbing dully.

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't scared of this. He wasn't a coward; he didn't fear the truth.

He didn't. He just wished it wasn't true.

"Look," Zoro started, and Sanji felt his heart stop and then speed up, "I know you've got a lot of shit going on, and waking up like that probably didn't help--"

Sanji was gonna die. He was gonna fucking drop dead, he could feel it. His heart would simply burst open with embarrassment and shame, and he'd have only the shitty marimo to pick up the pieces, and like hell did he trust the asshole with the shattered remains of his pride and dignity. It was like trusting Ace with anything potentially flammable.

Whatever it was, it'd end up shriveled and destroyed.

Like Sanji.

"— but you really need to not be such an uncompromising asshole about it. It was late, we'd been drinking, we were both tired, and I just knocked out. I didn't sleep there on purpose, I was just fucking exhausted. I don't intend to do it again, so hurry up and move on with your fucking life, idiot. It can't possibly be the worst way you've ever woken up."

With that he opened the door, marched into the room, and closed the door behind him.

Easy as that. Nothing superfluous, nothing flowery or descriptive or in any way extraneous. Everything that needed to be said in the fewest amount of words required to get the point across. That was marimo's style. Sanji was starting to get more used to it the longer he spent time around the man. And he found, in an odd way, that he appreciated the gesture. He liked that there was no beating around the bush with the otherwise conversationally-challenged moron. Nothing to interpret, nothing to dwell on extensively. Moss-head told you everything you needed to know in the only way he knew how: straight-forward and to the point. Often-times painfully direct.

But at least now Sanji knew, without a doubt in his mind, that Zoro wasn't hiding anything from him. He knew there wasn't anything about the previous night that was any more shameful or embarrassing than falling asleep with the idiot. That was the worst of it. And it wasn't all that bad, really. It wasn't like the marimo'd had morning wood, or something equally as scarring. They had both been completely clothed, in relatively innocusous positions – they certainly hadn't been spooning, thank God! – and nothing, absolutely, positively, without a goddamn doubt, nothing had happened between them.

Sanji took a deep breath of smoke and let it out, feeling the fraying of his mind slow considerably, and thankful that, if nothing else, his brain was sort of saved for the time being. He still had the shitty reading of the Geezer's will later that afternoon, but now he didn't have to dread coming home afterwards. Things weren't fucked up beyond imagining, and he could still show his face among his friends. Score one for the love-cook.

And as Sanji stubbed out his cigarette and began putzing around the kitchen, the full and steaming coffee pot forgotten for the moment, he had to admit that, in all honesty, it hadn't been the worst way to wake up. It'd been awhile since he'd rolled over or opened his eyes to find another warm body near him. It had also been a while since he'd been quite that shit-faced, but nevermind. If only it had been the lovely Nami or Vivi all curled up in his bed – because Kaya and Robin were spoken for, and Sanji may be a ladies man, but he wasn't a cad – then the morning would have been utter bliss! The perfect way to begin the day, or midday, rather, but nonetheless it would have been grand.

He supposed, though, that waking up to a fully clothed, green-haired swordsman wasn't really the be-all end-all of fail. He could have done worse, in his own humble opinion. He could have fallen asleep with Franky. And that would have been terrible.

But it was while he was pulling out the eggs to make omelettes that Sanji admitted, in some small part of his brain that didn't handle a whole lot of his more important mental funtions – and it was clear why, in that very instant – that there may have been one other, very slightly embarrassing thing from that morning, one a bit worse than the realization that he had inadvertently slept with a man, because it actually found its origins in Sanji's own psyche, which is what made it so damning, even though he really wanted to deny it, because it was so out of character for him, and utterly unwarranted, and unbelievably random that it was hard to wrap his head around the fact that the thought had actually occurred to him, but there was no point in arguing with himself:

Zoro looks good when he sleeps.

Those were the exact words that had flitted across his muzzy, alcohol clouded mind when the cook had realized that his pillow wasn't quite as soft as usual and sat up, eyes very slowly scanning over the unexpected bed partner he found himself with, until his gaze finally fell on the slumbering face of the swordsman. He'd looked calm; more peaceful than he tended to be when awake, and Sanji had never thought in a million years he'd ever see a look that…he didn't want to think it, but the word was there, arresting his brain before he could even discard it: marimo looked almost…gentle…when he was sleeping. And one day, Sanji may very well rib the man mercilessly over what a pansy he must really be, but for the moment, the cook was just trying to recall the instance without all the heat burning his cheeks, and it seemed completely ridiculous that he was fighting this hard not to blush. He'd blushed at the time, too, and he'd be long dead and buried before he ever said anything about it to the moron.

Whatever, Sanji, he thought to himself, pulling out one of his non-stick frying pans and setting it on the stove before flicking the dial to 'medium.' It's all the stupid marimo's fault. No sense in dwelling on it. Just make your damn omelettes so all the idiots and the wonderful goddesses have something to eat before you leave…

He dutifully cooked away, adding peppers and bits of ham and cheese, folding the batter together with a perfect crease, and refusing to admit that the warmth in his face that would not fucking go away was anything other than heat from the stove.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It wasn't long before the delicious smells twirling out from the kitchen eventually caught the attention of the apartment's other occupants. The boys in the living room were the first to start stirring, low muttering and yawns now interspersed with those still snoring away. The door to Luffy's room opened not too long after and revealed that the ladies were the first ones actually up and decent-looking. They came strolling out of their haven looking none the worse for wear, given the level of destruction and desolation everything else seemed to have suffered. Sanji trilled and pirouetted around them, presenting them with cups of coffee and pieces of toast with butter and jam spread perfectly even across the top while the omelettes kept cooking. They thanked him and took up the seats at the buffet table/kitchen counter, watching the cook work and talking easily together.

It wasn't until a few moments later that it finally dawned on Sanji that if the girls were in Luffy's room, that meant Ace and Smoker were in Chopper and Zoro's, and that just so happened to be the room Zoro had wandered into when he stormed out on the cook, and Sanji honestly wondered if the brain-dead moron had even been aware of that fact when the swordsman had slammed the door shut, but before he had a chance to think too much on it, there was an unholy uproar coming from the very room in question, and what sounded like a screaming argument that was just able to be made out from the other side of the wood.

"I SWEAR TO GOD, ACE, IF YOU DON'T BACK THE FUCK OFF --"

"YOU RIPPED MY SHIRT! YOU TOTALLY NEED TO REPAY ME!"

"I TOLD YOU, IT WASN'T MY FUCKING FAULT! AND HOW THE HELL DOES DOING THAT PAY YOU BACK!?"

There was a lot of crashing and stumbling around, and some grunts of frustration as bodies knocked things over, with the litany of curses serving as a constant soundtrack to the heated fight no doubt going on. The girls at the kitchen table had stopped chatting, now turned around in their chairs to stare at the door. The boys had wandered over from the living room, drawn away from the delicious scents by the intense racket coming from the room across the apartment. Sanji, for his part, stood slightly frozen at the stove, omelette balanced on the end of his spatular, waiting to be flipped back into the pan.

"OH COME ON! TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF, ALREADY!"

"FUCK YOU! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, GODDAMMIT!"

A sudden crash, and the sound of something breaking, and Chopper whimpered slightly, unsure of whether it had been anything of his. Several more loud bangs against the door, shuddering the wood in its frame, and suddenly it swung open, depositing the two fighting men onto the floor in the hall. Zoro rolled onto his back, snarling and shoving at Ace's shoulders, who was wrapped tightly around his waist.

"But baby, we'd be so hot together!"

"I don't care!" the green-haired man shouted. "Let go!"

The larger man arched his hips up, balancing on his shoulder blades while his hands reached back, trying to undo Ace's iron-grip on him. That mischievous, freckled face just leered further.

"Now ain't that a pretty sight!"

"Go to hell!"

"But Zoroooo!" Ace whined in a disturbingly Luffy-esque manner. "It'll be fun! We could totally make it a menge a t-- "

"—Finish that statement, Portgas, and you'll find yourself missing some very important anatomy."

A new voice entered the argument just then, and suddenly the shirtless, imposing figure of Officer Smoker appeared in the darkened doorway of the bedroom, looking tired and excessively annoyed. He marched straight over to the struggling men, and wrapped a strong arm around Ace's middle, hauling the slighter man over his shoulder like he was a feather pillow.

"Aw, but Smokey!" Ace whined again, and both the police officer and Zoro flinched slightly, "It'd be hot, and you know it! He owes me for the shirt -- "

" -- How the hell does that pay you back, dumbass -- "

" – And besides, he needs to get laid, anyway. Like, badly!"

Smoker looked close to murder, and Zoro seemed to be comtemplating suicide. No one else in the room was about to tackle this issue; they simply let it play out on its own, figuring that getting caught in the cross-fires would be a decidedly dangerous thing to do.

Smoker ground his teeth slightly, before saying in a low, tight voice, "We're getting dressed. We're leaving. And you're never going to say anything like that. Ever. Understand?"

"But babyyyyyyyyy!!!!!" Ace continued to pout, even as his lover ignored him and began carrying him back into the bedroom. "I can't help it! He looks so gorgeous when he sleeps!"

And then the door to the room slammed shut.

And everyone sort of stood there, frozen, silent, no one entirely sure what to say anymore.

Until, like the insightful musings of a learned philosopher, the silence was broken by, "Wow, Zoro, gay guys really like playing with you, huh?"

The silence shattered into complete pandemonium. The girls nearly fell off their chairs laughing, Franky had grabbed his guitar while Brooke fired up the piano, churning out a quick round of, "Endless Love," (with Franky singing the girl's part), Usopp was rolling around on the floor spitting and choking, and looking torn between amusement and horror, while Chopper ran in circles looking for his doctor bag, because he was certain he had "something to help when doing that." Zoro was still on the floor, hands wrapped around Luffy's scrawny neck, throttling him while he shouted obscenities, a vein throbbing dangerously near his temple.

For his part, Sanji remained silent. He flipped the omelette back into the pan, served up the four meant for the ladies, stacked the remainder on a hot plate for the assholes to fix themselves, and quickly wiped down his kitchen before wandering off to his room. Once he had grabbed a change of clothes, he slipped into the bathroom undetected to shower, dressed, got back out, and after grabbing his keys, stole out of the apartment without drawing a single, curious gaze.

Which was all right. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. He was tired and sore and worried and confused all at once, and he didn't see how so many different emotions could seize his brain so suddenly. He'd been sort of okay while cooking breakfast; maybe a little irritated, but when had he ever not been annoyed with the goddamn marimo? But it was a step up from mind-numbingly depressed, which was exactly what he'd been before the infuriating asshole had shown up to completely derail his previous thought process, saddling him instead with maddening thoughts he really couldn't stomp out. And Sanji was tired of thinking about the swordsman. He was tired of not being able to control his own wandering mind; to not be able to focus on things considerably less frustrating or awkward or utterly nonsensical.

Like the current, inexplicable prick of anger he was feeling at the moment. Sanji didn't get it, didn't understand why he felt it smoldering just slightly beneath the surface, but it was there, and he could barely even begin to fathom what had caused it. He'd been pissed at Zoro when he thought the bastard was going to try and ruin his reputation, but that had passed already. Once that crises had been averted, he had relatively calmed down…but now he was pissed. And the only thing that had happened in between was Ace's crazy outburst…

…and it hit him. The last thing Ace had said before Smoker had hauled him back into the bedroom. It was stupid and childish and it made no damn sense, but it was the answer nonetheless, whether Sanji knew why or not.

He looks so gorgeous when he sleeps…

Sanji was pissed that Ace had seen Zoro's sleeping face. Felt betrayed, or cheated somehow, because he imagined not many people had seen it – except Chopper of course, since he shared a room with the marimo, but for some reason Sanji wasn't mad at him – and he'd thought, for a moment or two, that he'd managed to get past the stoic man's wall. Thought he'd made some sort of connection – however sappy and retarded that may have sounded – regardless of whether the other man had been aware of it. For a few seconds, Sanji had seen Zoro vulnerable, and that would probably never happen again. And then Ace, of all people, got to see the exact same thing Sanji had seen, and it for damn sure didn't mean the same to that freckled pyromaniac as it did to the cook. Even if he didn't know what, exactly, it did mean.

And the fact that it meant anything at all to Sanji sort of pissed him off, too. It shouldn't. It really shouldn't be that big of a deal to him, and yet here he was, grumbling under his breath as he stumbled down the cluttered stairs on his way out of the apartment, mulling all this over, and feeling ridiculously pathetic and embarrassed, even as he burrowed his chin into the collar of his blazer to hide the feeling of heat in his cheeks from even himself.

But he tried to shake it off, get his mind to something approaching focused. He'd need his wits about him for where he was headed right now. God only knew what the old man had in store for him, and Sanji imagined that, somehow, it'd be even more traumatizing than anything he'd suffered already that morning.

Even moreso than blushing over goddamn Roronoa Zoro.

Silly Sanji. He's crazy, and he doesn't even know it....