Chapter Text
“Outta the way, kid,” Zeff shouts over the rush of steam and discordant clatter of too many pots and pans. He nudges Sanji in the side, pushing him towards the door, dipping a spoon in the nearest saucepot. He lifts it carefully to his lips and takes a taste, then turns to address the staff hovering behind him. “Are you allergic to seasoning?”
He tosses the spoon over his shoulder and the anxious young man scrambles to catch it before it hits the floor.
“I’m serious,” the chef says, sparing Sanji a quick glance. “Not during events. I can’t have you in here… I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner,” he tacks on, his voice lacking in its typical gruffness, inflection tilting up at the end. It’s a question. An invitation.
Sanji nods and turns to make his exit, nearly crashing into a server, arms laden with silver trays.
“Eggplant!”
Sanji waves the chef off and trudges back into the main hall, past the open bar, weaving through the guests and towards the nearest set of open double doors. The balmy evening welcomes him with open arms and he takes a deep breath, adjusting to the drop in ambient noise.
He catches quiet snippets of the world’s most boring conversations as he hangs a right, sticking close to the white stone wall and traveling through the shadows.
Things about potential shareholders and double blind trials. Predictions for the future of GERMA based on pure conjecture.
Who cares.
Surely a hefty percentage of the guests do not. Everyone shines with the same glossy veneer of charitable work, but the glamor fades under a second glance, laying bare the apparent self interest.
Sanji walks on a bit longer, a specific destination in mind. Somewhere he won’t have to hear any of the bullshit. Somewhere he can just be.
Alone at last—physically, though it could be argued that before he was alone before—Sanji strides to the familiar railing of a tucked away balcony and leans his weight on it, gazing out at the city below.
He wonders what’s going on down there. Right now. In the crowded apartments and high rise office buildings. Wondering what people that aren’t them are doing at that very moment.
A soft sound causes Sanji to start, pushing away from the railing and turning back towards the mansion, tension coiling tight in his spine as he searches for the source.
He’s not alone.
Finding no one nearby, he remains still, listening intently to discern whether or not he conjured the noise in his own mind.
It happens again. A soft groan, the direction of its source more readily identifiable with some concentration. Sanji treads quietly towards the end of the line: the covered alcove, partially hidden by a large potted shrub.
A low, pleased chuckle drifts on the summer breeze to Sanji’s ears, allowing him to discern that there are at least two people before he sees them.
Lean limbs half-concealed in shadow tangle and twine together on the bench seat. Long fingers span possessively over a trim waist, tightening and tugging ever closer, bathed in blue by the light of the moon. Two men very much engaged in their own wordless conversation.
Sanji almost laughs.
Someone’s doing that? Here?
Well, it’s certainly more entertaining than the goings on inside. He slips as close as he dares to catch a better glimpse at the man with a mop of feathery blonde hair as he grinds forward, another breathy moan filtering over his shoulder for Sanji to hear.
His companion tugs him closer, murmuring in his ear. Sanji takes another step, dying now to know what it is that he’s saying. Odds are it has nothing to do with investing.
Not in GERMA’s cutting edge of wellness, anyway.
Rooted to the spot by forces unseen, Sanji chews the inside of his cheek. He watches transfixed as the man traces his tongue up the side of his partner’s neck, a glint of sharp white teeth scraping along after, followed by a conciliatory brush of lips.
Eyes heavy lidded and dark flick up in his direction and the spell breaks. Sanji turns and bolts, fleet and quiet footsteps carrying him back towards the party and the known quantities therein.
𓁼
“Homeroom buddies!”
Sanji barely has time to identify the source of the familiar voice before the weight on his back multiplies by another body, pitching him forward into room A106. The boy on his back topples off, dragging Sanji’s backpack with him, and Sanji stumbles, catching himself on a nearby desk before his face hits the floor. He turns and shoots a halfhearted glare at his classmate.
Unfazed, the dark-haired boy slings an arm around Sanji’s shoulders and steers him towards the back of the room.
“What did you do all summer?” Warm brown eyes twinkle with mischief and the boy wiggles his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you were too busy with your conquests to message little old me.”
“Something like that,” Sanji replies, pasting on an easy grin. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, you know that, Usopp.”
Sanji maintains enough distance so it isn’t that strange that he didn’t message the boy at all over break. In truth, unless school is in session, Sanji isn’t permitted contact with anyone who isn’t immediate family. While other kids bemoan the return of school supplies in stores and the cooler temperatures signaling the change in seasons, it is for that reason Sanji has grown increasingly fond of fall over the last several years.
“Do I?” Usopp asks, throwing his backpack down on top of an unattended desk and dropping into the empty seat. “I was too busy traveling the world to bother with something so pedestrian as romance. You really should take a train through the European countryside when you have a chance, Sanji.”
Sanji laughs, claiming the seat next to him. “Sounds like you had an amazing time,” he says, letting the obvious lie slide.
“Who are we kissing?”
Sanji’s ears perk up at the familiar voice and a ray of light beams down from the heavens above when he spots a redheaded girl preparing to stow her bag under the desk to Usopp’s left.
“Trade me,” he hisses, kicking his foot out at Usopp’s shoe.
“Dude,” Usopp hisses back, “I'm already sitting.”
Sanji makes an aggrieved sound and settles into the seat at Usopp’s right, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of Nami, fresh from her summer growth spurt. She’s grown in all the right ways, Sanji thinks, eyeing the pattern across her tank top, stretched tighter now over her chest.
“You, if you’ll have me,” Sanji volunteers, aiming his winningest smile her way, reluctantly lifting his gaze from her breasts to her big brown eyes. Eyes which roll as she waves him off.
“Nope,” Nami responds, popping the p for added effect, stretching her arms overhead and pushing her chest out further. Sanji follows the movement, entranced. A sly smile curves her coral colored lips up at the edges. “But I’ll let you buy me lunch if you behave.”
Sanji nods so quickly he can practically feel his brain bouncing around in his skull. If he can buy Nami lunch, he can sit with Nami at lunch, and if he can sit with Nami at lunch—
“This is just sad,” Usopp laments, eyes cast towards the ceiling. “Dear Lord, every day I ask that you grace my pal with some common sense and every day you forsake him. Is he not among your beloved flock?”
The bell rings and the teacher begins to take attendance as the conversations in the classroom die down from a uniform roar to a smattering of whispers.
“Hey…”
Sanji and Usopp both turn to face Nami at her quiet utterance.
“Luff is throwing a party this weekend, are you in?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Usopp replies airily with a wave of his hand. “I have many prior invitations to consider.”
“Not you, dummy,” Nami whispers, “Luffy already said you were coming. Sanji?”
“Uh,” Sanji starts, a hopeful fluttering in his chest, followed shortly by a sinking feeling. “What day?” There’s a chance he can sneak out, as long as it isn’t—
“Saturday.”
Sanji groans. Well, that’s his potential social life down the drain. “I can’t, I have something I can’t miss.”
“Sanji Black,” the teacher calls, aiming a pointed look his way. Sanji raises his hand, face burning under the scrutiny. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to save the chitchat for 8:45?”
Sanji opens his mouth to apologize as a boy with green hair pushes the door open, standing with an air of uncertainty at the front of the class, eyes scanning over the sea of filled desks.
The teacher’s brow arches, frustration at yet another interruption plain on her face. “Mr. Roronoa, can we help you with something?”
Sanji cackles and the boy shakes his head, shuffling back out into the hall.
“Mr. Black!”
𓁼
There’s always another event.
And another. And another after that. There’s no end to it, Sanji thinks despondently. There’s nothing he can do short of showing up as expected and accepting his fate.
The night’s not even half over and he’s already a little tipsy.
Sanji slips between guests, nodding hello when it’s necessary, blank-faced when it isn’t. Nobody sees him pilfering half empty champagne glasses. If they do, nobody cares. Nobody is watching him, not really.
To go unseen, he smiles bitterly to himself as he makes his way out towards the veranda. Maybe it’s a superpower, maybe it’s a curse…
Maybe everyone would look in his direction if he stood in the center of the floor and started screaming.
His fingers twitch around the stem of his empty champagne flute. He plunks it down harder than he anticipated in front of a thin woman with an overwrought hairstyle and makes for the French double doors, pushing on them forcefully and letting his unsteady legs carry him out into the quiet evening.
So much for solitude.
Someone’s in his spot. Sanji stops in his tracks. He sighs, disappointed, hesitating, scanning up and down the man’s considerable frame. Taller than the rest of the honored guests by a good margin, and quite a bit less conservatively dressed.
Clad head to toe in a color Sanji can only deem bubblegum pink, the man’s suit shines in the low light, showing off the sheen of the material, drawing his eye to the patterned shirt beneath. The shirt parts and falls open in the direction of his lean, recklessly unbuttoned more than most of the way.
Sanji averts his eyes lest they make it all the way to the man’s navel on accident, glancing down at his own suit by default. An exceedingly boring—by comparison—charcoal gray.
He knows who the man is. Well, kind of. He’s seen him around, heading in and out of closed-door meetings with his dad for about as long as he can remember.
Sanji’s considering leaving and relinquishing his space to the near stranger until the man straightens from where he's leaning against the wrought iron, raising his glass for a pull as he eyes Sanji up and down in kind. It feels like Sanji is being dared to stay.
The man doesn’t own the place anyway, Sanji thinks, his lips drawing into a determined line as he saunters up to the railing.
Sanji does.
Kind of.
He isn’t about to be chased away from his respite by some old guy dressed like a child’s birthday cake.
Sanji fishes around in his coat pocket, drawing out the loose cigarette he lifted from Zeff earlier in the day.
“Got a light?”
The liquor burns Doflamingo’s throat as he swallows, peering out of the corner of his eye at his surly blonde companion.
No pack, no lighter.
The corner of Doflamingo's lips quirk, amused. Far too young to be without a chaperone for the event. He tucks a hand in his pocket, swirling the ice in his drink as he examines the boy up close.
Suit a bit too large, meant to be grown into surely. A dusting of stubble on his chin. The boldness is refreshing, after a sea of boring, simpering crowds rubbing elbows and schmoozing the night away. He's no stranger to the song and dance of it all, of course; he merely prefers the thrill of pulling the threads behind the scenes more than wearing the mask of a philanthropist invested in the good of the world.
"A bit young to be poisoning your lungs, aren't you?"
Sanji grimaces, turning the cigarette around in his fingers and examining it, aiming his response at the filter before placing it between his lips.
"I think I asked for a light, not a life coach."
Sanji stares out into the night, willing his heart rate to slow, wondering if he made a miscalculation in engaging with the man. Irritation creeps in, clearing out the fuzzy warmth of the champagne. What did being young have to do with it, anyway? Youth wasn't a protective factor, last Sanji checked.
"That you did," Doflamingo muses, eyes sharp. Curiosity piqued by the boy’s sour temperament, he sets his hip against the railing. "Though if we left it up to children to ask for what they think they need, the folly of youth could very well be our downfall."
"A simple no would've sufficed," Sanji shoots back, turning to face the man fully. Too fucking tall, he thinks, tilting his chin and meeting the man's eyes unflinching. He really could've used a cigarette. A lecture, not so much.
Doflamingo grins at the waspish retort. What pluck from the mouth of a babe. Already, the lack of decorum and respect from the boy is entertaining him. Preferable to the predictable and performative brown-nosing back inside, and infinitely more interesting to unpack. Who taught the boy such abysmal manners for his betters?
From his pocket, he extracts his phone, and as his thumb flies over the screen, he says idly, "No, I don't think it would have." His phone buzzes with a response shortly after, and then he's locking the screen and tucking it back away.
"I can't blame you for your vice," he says after a moment, dangling his glass in the air for emphasis. "These events are sorely lacking in flair."
Well, it doesn't seem like he's in trouble at least, Sanji thinks, relieved, tracking the man's movements. He hesitates, torn between choices. Defend the boring ass gala out of loyalty to his family… or agree. Because he's not wrong. Nothing interesting has happened at one of these things in ages, not since Yonji knocked over one of the giant ice sculptures at the annual GERMA Christmas party two years back. Sure, Sanji ended up taking the blame, but it ground the usual proceedings to a halt for a moment anyway.
Sanji groans quietly and turns to face the gala, leaning his weight back against the railing. Nothing. He's going to go with nothing. Everything he says seems to dig him into a deeper hole. He draws the unlit cigarette away from his mouth and messes with it, rolling the filter back and forth between his thumb and index finger, lips pursing in irritation.
The roar of the party increases temporarily; Doflamingo’s attention is drawn away from his pouting companion to the entrance back into the gala. Vergo is beelining toward him on a mission, a waitstaff’s borrowed serving platter in hand. Doflamingo downs the final dregs of his drink in preparation.
“Sir,” Vergo murmurs, quietly offering the platter to Doflamingo. On it lies a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and two champagne flutes filled with bubbly.
“Thank you, Vergo.”
No more words are exchanged as Vergo completes his assigned task, taking Doflamingo’s now empty glass with him as he exits, leaving the tray and its contents behind with only a fleeting glance toward the surly boy.
Doflamingo grins and flicks the lighter’s spark wheel absently. “Now, how about that smoke?”
Sanji tries to school his expression to something neutral, though he's grudgingly impressed by the display. A thrill runs through him at the thought that perhaps he was right after all, that maybe the man isn’t as boring and uptight as everyone else in attendance tonight. He eyes the silver tray, wondering if both glasses are for the man or if he might be able to have one if he plays his cards right.
"So, the lecture portion of the evening is over?" he asks, huffing a laugh as he sways towards the lighter and raises his hand, preparing to shield the flame from the breeze.
As blue eyes dart from one temptation to another, Doflamingo considers his response. He’s endlessly curious which of his business partners or their associates this one belongs to: the boy has not yet name-dropped in an attempt to bully his way, but he doesn’t seem to fear the repercussions of his words or his actions either.
“I’ll make you a deal. A light and no lectures. In exchange, a conversation. Some company while I avoid,” he gestures to the gala, long fingers unfurling lazily, “that would be refreshing.”
His bait is set—now to see how the sour little lemon responds.
“Yeah,” Sanji says, a beat too quick and hair too breathless. His heart thrums erratically in his chest and he lingers, waiting for the man to flick the wheel again. He walks it back a bit. “Fine, sure.”
People are predictable, in Sanji’s experience. One or two interactions, that’s all it takes. When someone reveals who they are, it’s to one’s own detriment not to believe them. Thing is, he can’t get a read on this guest. It’s exciting, it’s nerve-wracking. He wants to stay to find out more. He feels compelled to leave in order that he himself doesn’t get discovered for the nothing that he is.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins tempts his hands to shake. Sanji wills them steady and asks, “What are we talking about?”
Eager, but self-conscious, Doflamingo notes. He flicks the lighter, bringing the flame close to the boy, luring him out of his shell with the promise of warmth.
“Indulge me with a little escapism. Where would you rather be than here?”
Tonight in particular, Sanji would rather be drinking warm foam reminiscent of beer at Luffy’s party while he works on buttering up Nami enough to potentially slip a hand underneath whatever cute little top she decided to wear that evening. But he couldn’t possibly tell someone who has their own dedicated cigarette servant that.
While the man pockets the lighter and claims one of the flutes, Sanji takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly through his lips, re-inhaling the thin gray wisps through his nose. He holds back a tiny cough. “France,” he decides to say ultimately, the final remnants of smoke gusting out with his answer.
“Why France?”
Luckily for Sanji, he was expecting the follow up question, and he had been a couple times. Even though he didn’t get to see much personally, he was able to patchwork a conception of the place through his siblings’ retellings.
“The art and architecture… the food. The people…” Sanji smokes, eyeing the second glass in his periphery. “Everyone is more laid back and carefree,” he says confidently, “just doing what they want without worrying about how they look. Not like here.”
Steeling himself, he grabs the remaining glass and takes a sip, setting it down on the railing between them.
The cheeky move draws Doflamingo’s brow upward as he considers the response. France is a shithole, in his opinion. But Doflamingo promised no lecturing, and the idealized version the boy shares is telling enough to begin filling in the blanks: he is sheltered, isolated from the world around him and craving connection that goes further than skin-deep. Ironic, given how curated his answer seems. A habit maybe; his true feelings often shrugged off or scorned, so why reveal them to begin with? Quite the sad little defense mechanism.
“Ants. All marching forward,” Doflamingo muses aloud, walking his own fingers across the railing, toward the stolen flute. Before he reaches it, he lets his hand fall to rest, palm on the cool surface. He can agree with the boy’s final observation in some regards. Most of the populace is content to fall in line, following the leader. Few are ambitious enough to lead, and fewer still are fit to wear the crown. “It’s freeing to break the mold. Step out of line when it suits you.”
“Exactly,” Sanji replies, nodding emphatically. The alcohol does its job admirably, making his movements feel warm and lazy.
"How frequent a flyer are you to France? I can only assume you've fallen for the City of Love at least once," Doflamingo's tone softens to a near croon at Paris’s epithet.
“Twice,” Sanji replies, then he amends, remembering a picture of himself swaddled and sleeping in his mother’s lap on the GERMA private jet. “Three times, but I was too young to remember the first… I’d like to go again now that I’m older.”
Doflamingo hums. "Sounds like you have a plan."
Sanji is trapped where he's at until his father says otherwise, no matter how he slices it. Still, he hums in kind and shrugs. "Sure, why not?"
He wraps his fingers around the stem and takes a breath. The first one that hasn’t been nicotine-filled in a minute. He cocks his head to the side and smiles a little bit, feeling not quite at ease but close enough to it. Comfortable enough to turn the question back to his company, curious now to know where the man would rather be if given the chance.
“What about you? Where would you go?”
Escapism was Doflamingo’s request, and the boy delivered in spades, taking them across the pond. He'll play along and answer in kind, though he won’t be so recklessly revealing.
"Spain," Doflamingo says, "for similar reasons. The food and the views, of course, their beaches and cathedrals are equally stunning. It's vibrant in color and culture. The people are passionate." He takes a sip of his own glass, gaze sliding from the view of the gardens beyond the balcony to his company. "Fiery. Warm and welcoming like a family, too. They're good stewards of their faith in that way."
Passionate.
The word strikes a chord of remembrance and suddenly Sanji isn't thinking about tapas, though he wishes to god he was. He feels his face burning and prays the outdoor lighting is dim enough to hide the blush spreading over his cheeks.
Splotchy, Usopp says, and he never lets him forget.
He avoids the man's eyes, afraid—maybe irrationally so—that he'll find himself reflected in Sanji's gaze.
It was warm out that night, Sanji remembers. Not like now. A humid, late summer evening, the secluded alcove not more than twenty feet away. He had another man on his lap...
It was him. Sanji’s sure of it. The same eyes that are looking at Sanji now, they burned right through him then.
What was he saying?
Sanji grasps at straws, trying to remember a shred of the conversation before he loses it completely.
“So… do you get to go often?”
"Once a month or so. I have a home in Madrid, so I endeavor to spend as much time visiting the country as my schedule allows," Doflamingo responds breezily.
"Ah," Sanji says, a wry smile twisting his lips as he settles back into the conversation, "so your escape is close at hand. Some of us have to study for the PSATs and thus," he takes another sip of his champagne, "have a little less time for jet setting."
Doflamingo savors the hint of bitterness. It complements the acrid smell of the boy’s cigarette smoke.
"Make good use of those exam scores and your connections to work your way up a corporate ladder, and you can travel the world to your heart's content. Most of them have been,” Doflamingo’s flute clinks when he sets it on the tray, and he gestures loosely back toward the gala with his newly freed hand, “so whichever you belong to, I imagine it’s only a matter of time.”
Sanji is certain he'll see the inside of his hotel room if he sees anything at all. His mouth pulls into a tight-lipped smile; he stubs his cigarette out on the silver tray and swipes his palm over the material of his dress pants. He should've expected it, it's not like he's one of the favored.
His father hasn’t found it necessary to bring him around the lab in ages, hasn’t taken him out for a round of golf with his brothers to get better acquainted with various associates in even longer. In fact, as they age, the rare times Sanji isn’t hidden away are the highest profile events and, for the most part, Sanji likes it that way. Still, a small part of him hoped that, just this once, this one time... Maybe someone would've noticed he was in the same family.
"Vinsmoke," Sanji says shortly.
The name gives Doflamingo pause.
Judge Vinsmoke. This is the spawn of his gracious host? He runs through the tally of the brood his business partner has had running around through the years: were there four or five? He can’t recall. No use wondering which one of the bunch this one is either then; he’s never bothered with their names before anyway.
Of more interest to him is this information in the context of their interactions prior: a Vinsmoke brat acting out, bumming lights for cigarettes and booze from strangers, smarting off when he doesn’t get his way, but unwilling to use his family name to force it. His absence unnoticed, the desire for a night without lecture, for a place to be free…
Even in his half-hearted recollections of Judge’s children, they’ve all fallen in line obediently under the Vinsmoke rule. What makes this one so different?
Cogs turn with his machinations.
“Hmm,” Doflamingo responds, a note of sympathy slipping through. He casts the boy a rueful smile. “Did I steal away your hiding spot?”
Yeah. Seems it’s becoming a habit, Sanji thinks.
“I’m not hiding,” Sanji says, meeting the man’s eyes before glancing away towards the pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t need another, not exactly. His brain is buzzy with smoke and fuzzy with champagne, but the fact is he needs something to do with his hands.
He jams them into his pockets.
“No,” Doflamingo says. “I don’t suppose you are.”
Not hiding when he boldly asked for a light or stole away the second glass of champagne. Not when he was snipping like a dog on guard. No, this one hides his emotions after he’s let them slip. How his hands itch to take what he wants for himself, so he stuffs them in his pockets to keep them in line, forcing himself to be an ant.
“Still,” Doflamingo lifts his flute with a slight tilt toward the Vinsmoke. “Thank you for your hospitality. Would you mind terribly if I invade in the future? I worry this is far from the last time I'll be present at one of Judge's events."
“Well, you shared with me so it’s only fair,” Sanji says. He laughs. “Yeah,” he tilts his chin to look up at the sky. “I don’t mind.”
It sounds like he’s going to leave. Sanji wonders if he really will come back to talk to him. The thought is eclipsed by a more urgent concern. The box on the tray. Black and white, a skull and crossbones outfitted with a golden crown, the word “DEATH” emblazoned boldly beneath. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen them before. It’s not Zeff’s brand, at least.
Sanji pushes himself off the railing to stand in front of his father’s guest. “Could I get another for later?” Sanji gestures to the pack.
Doflamingo follows the motion, then meets the boy's eyes. "Why not take it like you did the champagne?" The boy has it in him. Hunger. Doflamingo can see it festering just under the surface, where the Vinsmoke is starving himself. All he needs is some prodding.
And there it is again. The heat rising in Sanji’s face. In part due to the question, though some he can attribute to the stranger’s sharp gaze. He doesn’t know. He’s not sure which action was the correct choice to make and which one was the fuck up.
“The glass was ready and waiting,” he says, truthfully enough. “I thought it would be bad form to open those before you even had one.” An apology sits on the tip of his tongue, nearly slipping from between his lips. He swallows it back. He doesn’t have anything to be sorry about. He doesn’t think.
Doflamingo lets a beat pass, then draws the lighter from his pocket, placing it with a clack next to the unopened cigarette box. He had promised no lecturing, but his time is nearly up he suspects and with it, the terms of their agreement. His phone has been buzzing incessantly in his pocket for several minutes now. Someone must be looking for him. A shame, since he’d been enjoying the company of youth for a change.
“When what you want sits before you on a silver platter, you take it. Or someone else might.” Doflamingo grins wide, fingers lingering over the pattern-engraved metal." That is how you do what you want without worrying about how you look.” He swallows the last of his champagne and offers the boy a nod. “Until next time, little Vinsmoke.”
And then he’s off, leaving the lighter and cigarette box behind, striding back to where he’s missed.
Sanji watches the man leave, chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a beat he snatches up the lighter and pockets it, the unopened box of cigarettes not far behind. He turns and drapes his elbows over the railing, sagging and letting the wrought iron support his weight.
He catches a glint of something shiny in his periphery. The platter sits within reach. Empty.
He never did catch the man's name.