Chapter Text
Luffy's evenings looked different before Sabaody—before Kuma.
Before Kuma, evenings were colorful. If Luffy were more eloquent like Brook, he’d describe those nights as vibrant as sea glass. Or as dazzling as a sunset. But Luffy isn’t—so he’d call them ‘fun’.
Those were nights that came with Usopp’s stories, Brook’s violin and a fun game or two. Maybe an impromptu party if they were in particularly high spirits.
The evenings on Rusukaina are more plain and there are no parties.
Rayleigh is a bit too old for the games Luffy enjoys and the games Rayleigh does like are too boring—poker or Spades or other such games Dadan and her clan would prefer. If Luffy is really lucky, he can get Rayleigh to sing a line or two. On even better nights, he tells a story of days passed when Shanks was younger and wrote checks his ass couldn’t cash.
There’s no singing tonight.
Not when Luffy is worn thin and his muscles ache from the day’s training. Harsh a teacher Rayleigh may be, the Grand Line is even more so. Luffy has long since learned that the sea cares little for promises and the bonds that tie people together. So, Luffy keeps his complaints to himself. Even his typical crowing for dinner to be served is notably absent.
Rayleigh notes the quiet with a chuckle. “You’re not normally this quiet when it’s chow time.”
“Food please,” Luffy whines.
“Five more minutes.”
Luffy pouts, tapping the sides of his feet together to pass the time. Rayleigh's cooking comes with little fanfare. He chops, he cuts, he pours and he occasionally stirs until the meal is ready.
Sanji's cooking felt more like he was playing an instrument. His cutting board was his fingerboard, his knife his bow. He'd hum if he believed he was completely alone in the kitchen—occasionally sing a verse or three or five if he was in an especially good mood. Then when the temptation to sneak a bite caused rubbery arms to stretch past Sanji's waist, a performative jab followed. Some missions were a success; other attempts were met with excommunication.
You can wait five more shitty minutes. Luffy snickers at the memory, stomach growling.
“You don’t need to tell me twice!” Rayleigh’s unfurrowed brow and grin tells Luffy his protesting is all for show. Dinner! In a few scoops, Rayleigh fills a bowl nearly to the brim. "Sea king stew, at your service."
Luffy cheers, foregoing a spoon entirely to drink out of his bowl like it’s a cup.
Rayleigh isn’t the best cook. Not in the slightest. Seeing as Luffy has never been the type to be picky, however, it’s nothing to gulp it down. Rayleigh’s cooking is edible. And Luffy’s never eaten anything so bad he couldn’t stomach it. On its own, the stew is good.
The sea king, the broth, even the vegetables.
Some nights, dinner is simply fish roasted by a fire. Others, it’s plain meat on the bone. Those were the nights most reminsicent of those days in the jungle with his brothers.
The meals are simple but Luffy’s never been one for extravagance, so as he takes another slurp of stew, he beams. "It’s good! Sanji’s is better though."
Chuckling, “You certainly know how to make a chef feel honored,” Rayleigh jostles the whiskey in his tumbler. He laughs again when Luffy nods over a third mouthful, and Luffy laughs along despite not knowing what all his mentor finds so humorous.
When he was younger—face and chest unmarred by scars and before his grandfather plopped him somewhere on Mt. Corvo—Shanks and his crew would do the same thing. With as serious a face a six year old could muster, Luffy would do or say something that made them all laugh so hard they’d fall over clutching their stomachs.
Luffy finishes his second bowl as quickly as he did the first. And the third. It's only when he’s on his fourth does he finally asks, “what kind of sea king is this?”
“I didn’t think to ask when we received the supplies.” Rayleigh peers at what remains of the pot. His own bowl is only half-way finished. “I never pegged you for the type to ask what you’re eating. You usually just eat it and conk right out. I can ask the next time one of the girls brings us a fresh catch, though.”
Luffy chews, looking at the fatty chunks in his bowl. If it were his cook he asked, Sanji would tell him its species and exactly how he prepared it. Similarly, if Luffy brought him some strange nut, berry or fish he’d never seen before, Sanji’s eyes would light up before rambling on about all the ways he would experiment with it.
A throaty rumble pulls Luffy out of his memories. “You miss your crew.”
“Yeah,” Luffy says plainly. “I really miss them.”
There’s everything to miss—Brook’s violin pulling Luffy out of his sleep, fishing with Usopp and Chopper, Franky putting on his sunglasses before his large fingers strum at his guitar, Zoro swinging large weights around, Nami hogging her tangerines, Robin and her books, Sanji and his galley.
Sanji.
“But—” Rayleigh leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Call it an old seaman’s intuition, but something tells me that you might miss your cook a little more than the rest.”
Luffy nods. “Sanji's special.”
Eyes gleaming with pleasant surprise, Rayleigh’s smile lines deepen with his grin. “Oh? And when did he become so special?”
“Sanji’s always been special.” Luffy loves his crew—always knew the specific moment they were his. He knew instantly with Sanji. Knew it when he saw him feeding a ragged pirate Luffy no longer remember the name of but Luffy knew with unwavering certainty that Sanji was his cook.
There’s a fondness to Rayleigh’s face Luffy can see in the dimly-lit embers. “I see,” he hums. Setting his bowl aside, Rayleigh takes another swig of whiskey. “Want to tell me how the two of you met?”
It’s a question that has Luffy grinning, smile stretched ear to ear.
He tells Rayleigh everything. He tells him about the fish-shaped restaurant in the East Blue, how he blew a hole into the funny old man’s room and how he was supposed to be a chore boy for a year. Tells him about the bedraggled pirate whose name Luffy can’t remember and how Sanji fed him despite all the violent protest.
It’s damn good, isn’t it?
It was—Luffy could tell without taking a single bite for himself.
“And after I beat this one guy, the old man said I could stop being a chore boy and Sanji finally said he’d join my crew!” Luffy finally stops his recount to breathe, snickering between breaths.
It took a fair amount of persistence—Sanji is stubborn like that.
And dumb sometimes when he’s usually really smart. He always makes things more complicated than they should be.
But Sanji is also kind.
And pretty.
And when he smiled while painting a satin-soft description of his dream, Luffy’s chest hurt the best way possible.
Sanji was his. Unshakably his.
Impossibly, Luffy’s smile stretches wider. “You should try his cooking when we see each other again, Rayleigh!” Luffy’s stomach growls just thinking about it. “No one is a better cook than Sanji!”
Rayleigh nods the neck of his bottle in Luffy’s direction. “I’ll have to disagree with you, Squirt. No one’s a better cook than my Shakky.” He’s wrong, but despite Luffy telling him so, Rayleigh only laughs again. “I hope your Sanji appreciates your dedication. But—no man worth his salt thinks his wif’'s cooking is second best.” His mentor is wrong again but rather than repeating himself, Luffy lets him believe it. “I’ll try what he makes, but he has tough competition.”
Rayleigh never gets to have that meal in the end.
The Pacifistas and strange copycats ensure that. Luffy at least tried to avoid causing trouble like Hancock requested. Still, sitting in Thousand Sunny’s galley enjoying his first Sanji Lunch in two years, Luffy can’t find it in himself to feel ashamed. So, instead Luffy enjoys the meat pastry Sanji made him enough for the both of them. “It’s good! It’s really good, Sanji!”
“‘Course it is, shitty captain!” Chin propped on his hand, Sanji grins. His eyes are blue and beautiful, like the sea surrounding them. “We were barely in Sabaody for a few hours.” Sanji sighs, “Trouble just follows you anywhere you go, huh? Here, have another one. Chew this time.”
Shishishi! Luffy’s already helped himself to ten more.