Chapter Text
Sitting on the kitchen counter—so uncouth as to not even use a fork—Luffy wolfs down three oversized platefuls of stir-fry before completely ruining Sanji's life.
“So you know how I’m trying to go pro?” Luffy asks. He grabs for the empty wok sitting on the stovetop and runs a greedy finger through the sauce.
Does Sanji know the sky is blue? “Yeah, dumbass,” he responds, wrestling the pan out of Luffy’s grasp before he can start licking it clean. “It’s kind of your whole thing.”
“Well, it’s finally happening!”
The wok crashes loudly into the sink. Sanji turns to Luffy, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Oh my god! You finally found a promoter that wants to sign you on? I mean, it’s about time, you’ve had the win stats to move up for a while now—”
“No promoter!” Well… not yet.” There’s a gleam in Luffy’s eyes that makes Sanji’s blood go cold. “You know the Grand Line Circuit?”
Did the sky stop being blue in the time they started this conversation? Yes, Sanji knows the Grand Line Circuit. It’s not just a martial arts tournament: it’s an invitation-only, twelve-week long spectacle where sixteen championship belt holders, masters of their divisions, duke it out for a multi-million dollar pot and the King of the Grand Line title. The GLC isn’t sponsored by any of the major pro-fighting organizations, but a group known as the Warlords. Each Warlord is considered the top living fighter of their respective styles. Seven Warlords, seven fighting techniques, and a bi-annual tournament dedicated to the sport next in the rotation. This past spring, the GLC sport was karate. In six weeks: boxing, up again for the first time in three and a half years.
“Luffy, what the fuck did you do?”
What he did, it turns out, was get into a public altercation with Donquixote Doflamingo, the Boxing Warlord hosting the upcoming GLC. Luffy shows Sanji the video of the entire exchange, which is quickly climbing in views on Youtube as they speak.“Isn’t this great?” Luffy asks. “I’m the first amateur in history to be invited to a GLC tournament!”
There’s a non-zero chance that Sanji might explode. “Are you joking? Is this a prank? You did not get invited to the GLC. You somehow insulted Do-fucking-flamingo so egregiously within the span of about—” Sanji taps the phone screen so he can check the video’s runtime, “six and a half minutes that your career got scheduled for public execution at the largest martial arts event in the world. You’re going to get beaten into a pulp so badly they’ll have to scrape your intestines out of the ring. If you compete in this tournament, which I don’t know if you even will, the GLC has to have some form of checks and balances in place—you’ll never compete in boxing again. You’d be lucky to be let into a pay-per-class kiddie camp!”
During Sanji’s tirade, Luffy becomes more focused on whatever ball of wax in his ear is causing his brain to malfunction than the actual words being hurled at him. One finger knuckle-deep in the canal, Luffy says, “What are you talking about? I’m going to win.”
Sanji throws his hands into the air. “You don’t even have a coach!”
With the look Luffy gives him, one would think Sanji had grown a second head, or maybe even a third. “Yeah I do. You’re going to coach me.”
And isn’t that just about the richest thing Sanji has ever heard in his entire shitty life? Forget the fact he hasn’t competed professionally in almost five years, he wasn’t even a fucking boxer. “Luffy, are you out of your mind? Why would you want me, a retired Taekwondo fighter, to be your coach? I don’t know the first thing about boxing!”
They both know that isn’t entirely true. The topic of Sanji’s former career may be strictly off limits, but Sanji’s a good friend, maybe even a great one, and he’s always tried to be present and supportive of Luffy’s ambitions. Going to matches and offering occasional dietary suggestions doesn’t make Sanji qualified to be a cornerman, though. Not to mention it blatantly crosses the line.
“I can’t do it without you," is the only explanation Luffy offers. “Oh, and Zoro will be training me, too. So you’ll have to work together.”
“ZORO ISN’T A BOXER EITHER YOU MORONIC SHIT-FOR-BRAINS!”
The night ends with so many fuck yous, you selfish cocksuckers, and I hope you die in a holes screamed that Sanji’s neighbors pound against the shared apartment wall and threaten to call the cops. After throwing Luffy out by the scruff of his neck, telling the sorry bastard to get out of his life for good, Sanji chain-smokes his way through a pack and a half of his cigarette supply. He swears up and down that Luffy is dead to him. The friendship is over, and Luffy is sorely mistaken if he thinks the two of them will ever say more than a word to one another ever aga—
“Sanji!” Luffy says the next day over the phone, the call being answered after the second ring. “Where are you? I thought we were meeting at Franky’s to start my training today!”
Sanji blacks out momentarily. He doesn’t entirely remember what he ends up yelling into the phone, but there’s no way the message isn’t clear. Without waiting for Luffy to get another word in, Sanji hangs up the call and blocks his number. About ninety seconds later, his phone rings again. The caller ID, “Roronoa Zoro” rests atop a photo of the man asleep on the counter of a bar, with Usopp’s blurry figure caught drawing cat whiskers onto his face with a sharpie. Sanji rejects the call and blocks Zoro’s number, too.
Several hours later, and midway through the run Sanji’s gone on to try to burn through the emotions flying around in his head, a car slows down next to him. The sunroof window doesn’t finish rescinding before Luffy pops out of the top. Did the freak bug his phone?
“Sanji!” Luffy screams. “Get in the car now!”
“How many times do I have to tell you before you get it?” Sanji screams back, not breaking his stride. “I’m not doing it!”
Luffy has the straw hat he normally wears off his head and slung over his shoulders. The car isn’t moving fast, but the wind still catches it enough for the string that keeps it on his back to push against his throat. How Luffy is getting enough air into his lungs to shout at the decibel he’s achieving is beyond Sanji. “I’m fighting in this tournament, and you’re training me!”
The car slows down enough for Sanji to see Usopp driving. That traitor. “Usopp,” Sanji barks with enough venom to make the other man whimper. “You’ve got about five seconds to drive this car away from me before I kick holes into all four of your tires!”
The threat immediately works. The car picks up speed, and from the interior Sanji can hear Usopp cry, “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice! Please don’t kill me!” Before he can fully floor the gas, though, Luffy pulls himself out of the sunroof and leaps. Add the fact he doesn’t break every bone in his legs on the landing to the growing list of anomalies Luffy’s existence is made of. Sanji skirts to a halt, only getting a split second to correct course and start running back in the direction he came in before Luffy sprints after him.
Luffy stays on his heels for almost a mile before Sanji realizes he isn’t slowing down and a change of tactics is necessary. The opportunity presents itself a block later, when he sees a sign for The Saucy Pig coming into view. Sanji stops dead in his tracks, then side-steps before Luffy’s barreling form can tackle him into the pavement. Luffy, clearly not anticipating their chase to end so abruptly, can’t slow down in time and crashes face first into a nearby lamppost.
“Hey!” Sanji says. Putting on the best smile he can muster—his tone deceptively casual—he jabs a thumb towards the restaurant door. “Want to grab a bite to eat?”
Hook, line, and sinker. “Are you kidding me that’s a great idea I’m starving are you paying this round—” is all Sanji hears before the door closes behind Luffy, and he’s bolting back down the street. He knows Luffy won’t notice he’s missing until after the waitress takes his order, and no way he leaves before eating the kitchen out of house and home.
Paranoia gnaws at Sanji the rest of the afternoon and evening. He keeps looking over his shoulder and checking his phone, terrified for the next moment Luffy might strike. Would installing extra security measures into his apartment be overkill? Just one of those security camera doorbells and a third deadbolt in the door! And—well, maybe some bars over the windows, too.
But night gives into morning, and Luffy makes no other appearances.
Sanji should have known the sense of security he’d been lulled into was false.
He’s a few hours into his shift at the Baratie, lobbing an insult at Patty for a mistake that probably isn’t worth the effort of an insult at all, when he hears a plate breaking from the dining room. Sanji shrugs, thinks nothing of it, and assumes one of the waiters will handle it. Another dish crashes. Then he hears the shouting.
Shit.
“Sanji!” The unmistakable voice booms from the other side of the staff doors. “I know you’re in there! Come out here!” Well. What does he even do in this scenario? If Sanji goes out into the restaurant, the two of them are going to cause an even worse scene than the one Luffy’s managing alone. But if he stays in the kitchen, he knows Luffy will get frustrated and come in after him.
Zeff makes the decision. He comes up behind Sanji, grabs him roughly by his collar, and growls into his ear. “I don’t know what the hell that kid wants from you, Eggplant, but you better give it to him right now, or you can kiss your job here goodbye.”
—
So, boxing! Awesome! Sanji really can’t contain his excitement! This is going to be great!
—
Franky’s gym is as flashy as they come, with high-tech equipment and state-of-the-art amenities adorning the massive, multi-floor space. Most people who take fighting seriously believe that the best gyms are the ones that look like they haven’t been renovated since 1967. That means Franky’s screams “showboater’s gym” at first blush.
Those who do know Franky, though, know his is a place that gives as good as it gets.
Sanji takes a good look around, breathes in the sharp smell of cola, watches people he doesn’t recognize sparring in one of the main floor’s rings, and re-adjusts the bag on his shoulder. He moves to the elevator in the back of the room. Up two floors, out of the elevator and down another hall; Sanji uses his membership card to scan himself into one of the private studios that has officially become Luffy’s.
Immediately apparent is the fact Sanji is the last to arrive. Which shouldn’t be embarrassing, because he’s completely punctual! But, he is a little surprised at the amount of people present for this meeting. Sanji had imagined it would just be Luffy, Zoro and himself. Instead, Luffy’s assembled an entire crew.
Luffy and Usopp are the only two people standing in the ring, with Luffy punching into the mitts Usopp’s wearing. Neither one seems to be taking the exercise seriously—they both appear to be more interested in seeing how high Luffy can hit. Law sits near the ring in a fold-out chair, more preoccupied with the medical textbook in his lap than the people around him. Sanji’s attention is drawn to Nami, who’s locked in a conversation with Franky. If Luffy had told Sanji that Nami would be part of his training, he would’ve said yes the first time he’d been asked. The bastard!
Before he can make his way over to her, however, a shout in his direction stops him dead. “What the hell are you doing here, shit-cook?”
Of course it’d be Zoro to ruin the mood from go. Sanji hadn’t noticed him when he’d first walked into the room, but now the man is in front of him, and the confused look on his face is almost more offensive than if it’d been anger.
“Did the moss on your head finally eat away at the dregs of your brain? We’re training Luffy together. This isn’t news.”
Zoro hmphs. “The way I remember it, you told Luffy no, and I told him to cut his losses and let me handle everything. Don’t see what good it is to have someone who doesn’t think Luffy is going to win here.”
Okay. That shouldn’t sting, because it’s sort of true, but Zoro being so accusatory makes Sanji all the more defensive.
“Sanji!” Luffy greets, cutting Sanji off from the comeback he had ready. “You’re finally here—” he was perfectly on time(!!), “—which means we can get started!”
Luffy makes everyone get into a circle, with each person taking a turn to say what their role on the team will be like they’re in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Hi, I’m Sanji. (Hi Sanji). Luffy keeps calling me his coach, but I’m really the hands-on nutritionist. I’ll feed him, monitor his caloric intake and output, help Zoro with any and all training duties as needed, make sure Luffy isn’t consuming an ungodly amount of energy drinks or other weird substances for those research groups he signs up for—
“Hey!” Luffy interrupts. “That energy drink study paid me really well, just so you know.”
“I don’t care if those studies pay you more than the GLC’s grand prize,” Sanji retorts. “If you’re fighting in this tournament, you’re eating and drinking exactly what I tell you to, and nothing else.”
Luffy huffs, and the group keeps going. Zoro, of course, is Luffy’s other coach. Though he and Sanji are sharing the role in name, Sanji understands that it’s Zoro’s job to handle most of the fight camp’s instructional labor. Fine with him. Franky and his gym are the financial sponsors of the operation. Law will be the cutman; an easy choice as he’s the only licensed cutman Luffy knows by name. Being a second year med student, it’s been a few years since Law has worked in the boxing scene full-time. But money on the side is money on the side, and Law is no better than anyone else currently sitting in the room: Whatever Luffy asks for, Luffy gets.
Nami is Luffy’s acting manager. Her and Usopp are in charge of anything and everything PR or logistical. Sanji had been right, the night Luffy had told him about the tournament, that Doflamingo’s outburst hadn’t been a guaranteed admittance into the GLC. Despite the opening on the roster existing, and the internet completely abuzz about the incident, the official GLC website (and the Warlords themselves) has yet to confirm Luffy’s name on the card.
“So, what?” Law asks. “We’re operating on the assumption that Luffy’s in until news stating otherwise breaks?”
Nami shakes her head. “It’s more official than that. The GLC got in contact with me about what happened pretty shortly after Luffy name-dropped me as his manager. None of this is public knowledge, but the rest of the Warlords are pretty divided on whether or not they’re going to let the stunt slide. They’re planning on sending someone out here next week to watch Luffy fight. I think if they see that he’s good enough to hold his own in the ring and not just some random civilian at risk of getting maimed on live television, they’re going to give him the spot.”
“Which means,” Usopp says, “Luffy’s definitely in. They just don’t know it yet.”
“I know a week is short notice,” Nami tells Zoro and Sanji, “But they have to make their decision soon, because the GLC Press Conference is going to be in three, and they have to be able to announce the official bracket order before the panel interviews.”
“It’s fine,” Zoro says. “They’re just going to make him spar someone, and Luffy’s going to be doing that regardless of if someone from the GLC is watching.” He turns his attention to Luffy. “I want to do a weigh-in with you tomorrow. We’re going to treat you like you’ve never boxed before.”
Luffy frowns. “But why? The GLC is a mixed weight-class competition.”
“Because I need to know what I’m working with in order to train you, and so does Cook. Just because you’re not being asked to catch weight doesn’t mean stuff like that isn’t going to matter. At least half of the boxers at this competition are going to be heavy-weights, and another fourth are going to be cruiser. Doesn’t matter how good your form is in the ring: if those guys have enough advantage over you in pounds, then you’re starting at fucked. God willing, you’re going to come in tomorrow at the high end of welterweight, and we can get you to middleweight by October.”
Luffy groans, looking at Sanji with a pleading expression. “Does this mean you’re going to put me on a diet?”
“You’re an idiot: that means I’m going to be feeding you more, not less.”
The cheer Sanji receives in response makes him drive his thumbs into his temples.
—
Through the tall glass entrance of the gym, the sky shows the first signs of growing dark. As the group begins to leave for the night, a flash of sun catches Sanji’s vision, and he stops, moving a hand protectively over his eyes. He remains firmly in place even after the adjustment.
Luffy notices him fall behind. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re coming to dinner with us, right?”
Sanji uses his other hand to scratch the back of his neck. “No, sorry, I’ve got to stop by the Baratie on my way home. But I’ll join you guys for the next one.”
“Oh, okay.” Luffy doesn’t do a good job of hiding the disappointment in his voice. “Well, we can at least walk out with you!”
“Nah, I’ve gotta take a leak—don’t want to hold you guys up. But I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sanji waves as he turns to walk further into the gym. Luffy doesn’t put up any more protest.
A final goodbye, and the crew is gone. In the bathroom, Sanji takes his time with the piss. Washes his hands. When he comes out, he doesn't leave. Instead, tightening his grip on his duffel bag, he makes his way through the gym’s thinning crowd and back up to the private studios. He flicks on the lights in the room furthest back from the elevators. It takes him a minute to set up the space the way he wants: some chalk on the palms, a dummy thrown over his shoulder and into the middle of the ring.
Shirt off, sweats on, neck cracked; Sanji takes a deep breath as he gets into position before his inanimate sparring partner. He kicks out, and his foot connects with the dummy. It sways for a moment, wobbling side-to-side, before centering itself once again. The arc of Sanji’s leg hadn’t been smooth. He shakes the limb out like a dog drying off. Takes another deep breath. Kicks again.
This time, it’s a clean swing.