I am supposed to be touched. I can’t wait to find the person who will come into the kitchen just to smell my neck and get behind me and hug me and breathe me in and make me turn around and make me kiss his face and put my hands in his hair even with my soapy dishwasher drips. I am a lovely woman. Who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me?

- Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

BREAKFAST

Waking up by getting his chair kicked out from under him isn't exactly Usopp's favourite part of the morning, but he guesses there are probably worse ways to start his day.

He still scrambles, disoriented, and almost chucks an empty plant pot at Nami.

"Wha—," he starts and blinks, trying to get his brain to start working. Fuck , he's tired. "Are we being attacked?"

Nami snorts, crosses her arms over her chest, looking down at him with a glint in her eye that tells him she's just upped his interest. "You're about to be if you don't get your ass into the galley."

Usopp blinks again, and blinks, and blinks. Until her words finally catch up to him.

"Shit," he groans, pulling himself up to look at the clock on his desk. "Shit, I tried —"

"Save it," Nami sighs, "just go before Sanji's head explodes. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"Yeah. Before he decides you're not getting breakfast."

He would never , Usopp thinks. He guesses Nami knows that, even as he rushes up the stairs leading out of his workshop in record time, even as he's wincing thinking about the insults Sanji's gonna hurl his way as soon as he steps foot into the galley.

Still, he scrambles and trips in his hurry to get to the deck, sleep clinging to him like a rubber band wrapped around him, tying him to his workshop and trying to drag him back down.

Fuck, he's tired . And then there's this thing in his chest, right beside his heart but maybe also way too close to his empty stomach on mornings like this, that's slowly waking up as well, that's making his fingers shake when he pushes the galley door open.

Usopp clenches his fist and paints a smile on his face, hopefully sleepy enough to convince an impatiently waiting cook that he still deserves breakfast.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he mumbles as he slips into one of the high chairs at the bar, keeping one eye on Sanji's back by the stove. He hopes that means he's still getting food, even when the table is already cleared, even when Sanji doesn't react to him.

"Uhm," Usopp clears his throat, cringes at the sound echoing in the empty room, then cringes again when Sanji lets some kind of pan clatter against the stove. "I tried to get up on time, Franky made me about twenty alarm clocks…"

Sanji turns around at that, at least, casting a doubtful look into his direction. There's some butter melting in the pan in front of him, hissing.

"Okay, he made five and one is so loud, it'd wake up half of the Grand Line, so I didn't actually set it," he barges on, then has to correct course again. "And maybe, because I was already not using that one… I forgot the others as well?"

This whole truth-telling thing he's trying out these days is hard . Especially when he's maybe had three hours of sleep and he can feel it in the way all the words tumble out of his mouth in rough, clumsy heaps, catching on the way out, so obviously made up he isn't sure why Sanji's not rolling his eyes at him already.

Instead, he's just standing there, shaking his head a little before turning back to the stove.

"There's no bacon left," he says.

"Duh," Usopp says and sighs, quietly, mournfully. He hasn't had meat for breakfast in about a week.

Sanji huffs, his shoulders shaking a little. "Get up earlier or quit whining, asshole," he says, a bit of bite colouring his voice, but still sounding almost happy about Usopp's suffering.

"I know, I know." Still, he frowns again, before sliding down in his chair until he can lay his head on the counter. When he closes his eyes, he can hear the sizzle as something hits the hot butter in the pan, can hear the clanking of spoons or spatulas, can hear Sanji's steps over the tiles, his movements practiced, ingrained.

It's soothing, being here; not quite a lullaby but close. He's missed this, Usopp realises, like he's been realising it for weeks, since they've met again on Sabaody. He's missed the smells of Sanji's cooking mixing with the heavy, homely scent of the ship, wet wood and salt and wind. It curls around him in the late morning, when he's still so tired his brain shuts off for once, leaving him strangely calm and drifting.

The comfortable silence they can get here, like this, just the two of them, is another thing he feels drawn to. If he didn't know better, he'd say he's been sleeping in on purpose, so he can have this.

It'd be easier than asking , Usopp thinks, before he reminds himself that he does know better.

"How long were you up last night?" Sanji asks, suddenly, and Usopp has to blink a few times before the question even registers.

"4 am," he mumbles, blinking slowly and turning his head, so he can watch Sanji at the stove, pouring something into the pan. "Maybe 5, actually. Before sunrise. I think."

It's hard to keep track of time when he's working. That in itself isn't new, with his workshop so far away from everything else going on on the ship, and the lack of daylight sure isn't helping.

But it's such a change. He's spent more time on Boin than he ever did on Sunny , and he'd gotten strangely used to being outside all the time, to being aware every minute of every day of what was happening around him. The only times he ever lost time like that was when he'd been hunting, lying in wait for hours until he almost felt like part of the island, felt himself growing and expanding until he wasn't anything more remarkable than the grass he was lying on.

When Usopp closes his eyes now, when he goes to sleep in one of the bunks like a normal person instead of dropping dead on the floor of his workshop, he sometimes thinks he can feel it here, too, can feel himself becoming one with the ship, waves crashing against the hull, wind pulling at the sails. He thinks he can almost feel the others around him, like a subtle pressure against his consciousness, a metallic taste on his tongue.

It keeps him awake almost more than the nightmares do, the thought that he's been alone for too long, that he'll never get used to people again.

Although, he can feel his Pop Greens, too, nestled against the mast on the upper deck between Nami's orange trees and Robin's flower beds. It's strangely soothing, having them here, like the part of him he built on Boin has come with him, even when another part stayed on the Archipelago.

The clatter of a plate on the counter startles him.

"Oh!" Usopp sits up, looking at the omelette in front of him, colour just this side of golden brown, vibrantly red cherry tomatoes spilling out, the thick scent of melting cheese covering all of it. There are little bits of chives mixed in with the eggs and sprinkled over the top, so green and fresh Usopp knows they must have been grown on the ship as well. The realisation surprises him, a kind of connection he hadn't expected, and it makes him hesitate to pick up his fork for the longest moment. "You shouldn't have…"

"Shut up and eat," Sanji says, lighting a cigarette with an easy flick of his wrist. "Honestly, Longnose, I'm just doing my job here."

It's more than that and they both know it. Usopp looks at Sanji looking at him, at the way he lazily draws in a breath of tobacco before turning his head to the side to breathe out again, sharp smoke filling the air.

It's more than that because while Usopp isn't picky when it comes to breakfast foods, there are some he likes better than others. There are some that make it worth getting up in the morning, and some that keep his thoughts from spiraling, and some that make him feel more alive, more like a person again, when he's had a rough night.

"Can I have some coffee, too, then?" he asks and hides the giddy feeling rising up in his chest behind an overly dramatic wince when Sanji glares at him.

"Don't push it," he says, but he still makes his way back into the kitchen to grab some coffee beans from the pantry.

Usopp lets his eyes linger for a bit, lets himself look at the sharp form of Sanji's back as he works, all of his lines washed out by the late morning sunlight streaming in through the portholes. He looks blurred and muted like this, the black of his suit more of a charcoal, or an ink blue. It's not a bad thing, really, when everything about Sanji always seems so carefully put together. Now, he's almost made soft by the light, by the ease he moves through his kitchen with, like he belongs, like he's never belonged anywhere else, like he hadn't left for two years.

It's strangely mesmerizing. He's never thought of Sanji as pretty before, not really. Attractive , sure, handsome , and hot , and maybe some other adjectives he can't put his finger on. Adjectives he likes to keep close to his chest, to only think when it's dark and quiet.

Now, he can't help but think it: Sanji's pretty , and stunning , and beautiful , in the way a sunrise over the open sea can be pretty and stunning and beautiful, even if you've watched it a thousand times, even if you know you'll watch it a thousand times more, if you're lucky, even if that same sunrise seemed so far away just a couple of hours earlier, when a storm had almost torn the ship apart.

Usopp's hands itch for his paints, his sketchbook, anything to keep this moment for himself, to hold on to it, to make it something real and tangible. A moment he can put into a mason jar, lid screwed on tight, and keep on a shelf, so he could open it once in a while, when the world felt too large and he felt too small again, and it would smell like this: late morning sunlight, damp wood and sea salt, omelettes and cigarette smoke.

With coffee brewing on the stove, Sanji turns to the pantry again, and Usopp finally manages to take his eyes off of him. He starts to dig into his breakfast, savouring every bite but still having a bit of trouble getting the food past the lump in his throat.

Something had pushed up there, he thinks, up from deep in his chest where it had been lying in wait for quite some time. He recognizes it, the flutter in his stomach, the tension in his shoulders, the pressure on his tongue.

He likes it. He's always liked it, this feeling, has always liked the way it made sense in a way nothing else did. You can be afraid when you're in love, just like it can make you brave, and it's easy to be afraid about this. In the end, no one expects him to do anything about it, not even himself.

The only surprise is the way he recognizes it. The only surprise is that he'd thought two years and a couple of oceans between them should've been enough to end it.

Huh.

"Breakfast is important," Sanji tears into his thoughts again, setting a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. When Usopp looks up, he frowns at him, chews at his cigarette, spitting every word out onto the counter between them.

"Most important meal of the day," Usopp agrees, trying for cheery but his voice keeps catching a little at the thing in his throat.

"I didn't say that ." Sanji leans against the bar counter and presses his cigarette into an ashtray, rolling his shoulders, considering. "It's just as important as any other meal."

Usopp takes another bite of his omelette, biting into the grin that's threatening to take over his face at any time.

What is this? What is this? What is this?

"Actually," he starts, "you're kind of the most forgiving about missing breakfast. Not that any of us like to miss your cooking but you make more of a fuss when it's dinner."

"Yeah, because dinner’s fucking hard to prepare."

“Every one of us gets something different,” Usopp contradicts. “I mean, I know this is an East Blue recipe." He points to the last bits of omelette on his plate. A small bubble of laughter bursts out of him, almost desperate to relieve some of the tension in his chest. "And I'm pretty sure this cheese is from the Gecko Islands. I don't even know how you got your hands on this." He pauses, breathing in, staring up at Sanji in amazement. "How is that not hard?"

There's a moment, tiny in comparison with all the other moments Usopp has had in the last thirty minutes, when Sanji seems to sway a little, like a strong breeze could knock him over. Something flickers over his face, as he puts both hands on top of the bar, fingers splayed wide.

He has nice hands . Usopp adds the thought to the detailed picture of Sanji in his mind, the one he pulls out when he's sketching, or working, or tired, or lonely, or happy. He has nice hands, long fingers, wide palms, with skin so much smoother than Usopp's own, and tiny scars, burns and cuts from moments of inattentiveness. Most of them seem old enough to be from his childhood, a few more recent scattered across, a sketchbook of a life on his skin, framed by the sharply ironed fabric of a shirt sleeve.

It's only because he's already looking, already tuned into this moment that he wants to put away on a shelf for safe-keeping, that he sees it; a finger twitching in his direction. Almost reaching out, almost touching Usopp's hand curled around his coffee cup.

The thing in Usopp's throat curls around every breath.

"Just…" Sanji's eyes are wide as he looks down at his own hands, at Usopp's hands, at the crumbs on Usopp's plate. His fingers twitch again, stretching wide until Usopp can almost feel the warmth of his hand, until he almost… almost …

Sanji pulls back, draws himself up, squares his shoulders like he's readying himself for a fight, like he's pulling up walls with the straightening of his spine.

"Just get the fuck out," he says, voice scratching over years of smoke and separation. "And get up earlier tomorrow. Shit, I'll drag you up here myself, I fucking swear…"

Usopp scrambles, first out of his chair, then out of the galley. He thinks of sunlight spilling over hands, he thinks of the edge of a shirt sleeve over warm skin, he thinks about scars next to cigarettes. He rushes past Robin on the stairs, ignores her asking eyes, ignores Luffy's shout across the deck, ignores everything until he can pull the door of his workshop closed behind him.

Only then does he dare to breathe in, to touch the back of his neck where a lingering stare still burns into his skin.

DRINKS

"Fuck, you scared me." Usopp shakes himself out of his shock, pushing his goggles up into his hair. "How long have you been standing there?"

Sanji's leaning in the doorway, black suit almost melting into the darkness behind him. For a few seconds, he doesn't answer, standing still on that last step of the stairs leading up to the Energy Room.

It's been a few hours since that moment in the galley. At least Usopp thinks it's been a few hours, maybe it's been a whole day again; he tends to lose time down here, tends to bury himself in sketches and blueprints, working until his muscles ache and his thoughts go quiet. It's easy, down here, where everything has its place, where he feels so much closer to being himself, to being the person he wants to be. It's easy because this is the place he's actually the best person for the job at hand.

He knows that he's hiding. No, he knows he wants to disappear , in these moments, and ordinarily he'd try and force himself to get up, play with Luffy and Chopper, talk with Nami and Franky, read with Robin, annoy Zoro. He feels present with them in a way he never felt with Heracles.

Today, though, he keeps replaying those seconds in the galley, keeps thinking about ways it could've gone differently, better, worse . So, he can't go up. Up, where Sanji is, Sanji and mason jar moments, all spilled out and messy.

Now, however, Sanji's here .

"Did I—," Usopp tries, when Sanji's still not moving. "Did I miss dinner? I'm sorry, okay, I'm… working on something…" He gestures towards the things on his workbench, one hand still holding a blowtorch he hastily puts down. His hands are shaking, sweaty. They weren't before, he's pretty sure…

"I'm coming up, okay? I just need a minute…"

He rubs his hands over the sides of his legs, suddenly realising he's taken his shirt off when he'd started using the blowtorch earlier. He freezes for a second, self-conscious and heartbeat much too fast to be healthy.

Say something , his brain screams at him. Say anything, come on, you're supposed to be brave now …

"I'm—," he starts.

"I made drinks," Sanji says at the same time.

Usopp stares at him for a beat before Sanji moves into the dim light of the workshop, holding a tall glass, sparkling in the low light, complete with a sugar rim and an orange slice.

"Oh," he breathes.

"It's not even lunch time yet," Sanji strolls closer, the hand not holding the drink shoved into his pocket, "but if you're already planning on missing dinner…"

"I'm not planning anything." Usopp sniffs, scratches at his nose, probably leaving a streak of oil or earth or grime there, judging from the way Sanji stares at him. His pulse flutters. "I just lose track of time…"

"Sure, whatever," Sanji says, shrugs, sauntering over to his workbench. "You want this or not?"

"Yes. Please." Ice cubes clink against each other when he takes the glass from Sanji, forcing himself to not care about the way their fingers brush. He concentrates on the cold of the glass in his grip, slippery from condensation and his own sweat.

"Thank you," Usopp says, taking a sip. He hadn't even realised how thirsty he is until now. It's fruity, and sour, and bubbly, refreshing in a way that makes it easier to breathe, as he suddenly realises how humid and hot the air in his workshop has become.

"Good?" Sanji's only glancing at him, inspecting the organized mess on his workbench instead, fingertips hovering over scrap metal parts and earth-covered tools.

"Perfect. Just what I needed." He watches as Sanji's eyes trail over sketches and scribbles. His heart feels jittery, restless, like it wants to burst out of his chest and into the open, all over the place like the chaos on his desk. "I could've come to get it myself, you know."

Sanji drags a careful finger over the surface of a piece of metal that was supposed to be the shell for a smoke bomb before Usopp had gotten carried away and started mindlessly etching patterns into the steel.

"I know," Sanji says, finally looking up over his shoulder at Usopp. "I wanted to give it to you."

There's not enough air between them. Maybe it's because of the humid heat, maybe it's because Usopp has leaned in to watch Sanji inspect his work, and now there's barely any space to breathe. Usopp still tries, though, takes a deep breath and catches a dark, bitingly smokey cloud of Sanji's scent.

When he exhales, he sees Sanji shivering.

It's always kind of loud in his workshop, the ship and the ocean surrounding it making enough noise to drown out even Franky's experiments. Still, in this moment it feels quiet. Usopp can almost hear Sanji's heartbeat, just behind his own.

"You—," Sanji says into the silence, voice hushed and low. His brow twitches, and suddenly he leans closer, eyes determined and flickering over Usopp's face until.

Until.

Usopp can taste Sanji's breath on his tongue. He's always had a wild imagination and so he imagines. What he would taste like, what he would feel like, what he would feel .

He's always had a wild imagination.

And so he imagines Sanji's hands pulling him in. Instead of pulling away, which he did, just a couple of hours ago.

"I—," he starts, coughs, almost falling two steps backwards in his haste.

He stares at Sanji until he can't anymore, until he has to look away because it's too much, it's too much, it's too soon and too close and too much.

Two years and the intensity of his own feelings still catches him by surprise.

"I have to finish this," he says, choking on every word. "It's— it's dangerous, if I leave it for too long, it— it'll catch fire, and, and…"

He trails off, grabs a screwdriver and puts it down again, grabs a saw and puts it down again, does the same with a hammer, a pen, a blowtorch.

Tools are his safe space. Usually. Usually he'll get his mind off of anything if he can just get his hands on some wood or metal, if he can work his way through a mechanical problem instead of focusing on one his brain makes up by accident.

Now, he can't get his thoughts away from Sanji's breath on his face. Or from the way he can feel him looking at him.

"Actually, I think this'll catch fire if I don't oil it soon," he lies and picks up a can of oil, puts it down again. "Wouldn't want that, would we? Being surrounded by this much wood. Very flammable. But who am I telling this, you catch on fire all the time…"

"Why aren't you looking at me."

"I'm looking at you." He's clearly not. "I could show you, actually, this is my new—"

"Stop it." Sanji's voice sounds like he's grinding his teeth over every word. "What are you doing ."

"Working, obviously." Usopp almost rolls his eyes. He shakes a box with nails, looks inside, closes it. "I'm making a smoke bomb, it's cool, actually, do you want to see, if I do it right, I can—"

"No." A step. A huff. The angry chk chk chk of a lighter. "I don't want to see… I want…"

Usopp looks up.

Sanji's face is half covered by his hair, half by his hands lighting a cigarette.

"You want what?" Usopp asks, so quietly he can barely hear himself.

For a second, his imagination — running wild wild wild — gives him every possible answer.

Then, Sanji pulls on his cigarette, noisily breathing in. "Nothing from you," he says before he strolls back towards the stairs.

LUNCH

It's a week later when Usopp wakes up with the stinging smell of the infirmary in his nose. He blinks slowly, tries to orient himself, tries to think . Which is harder than it should be, he's always been good at thinking, too good at times, and now he… everything's so foggy, and his head hurts, and…

Sanji. The name shoots into his muddled brain without prompting, and a sting in his chest joins the pounding in his head.

"Hey, hey—" Chopper's hat comes into view just as Usopp struggles to sit up, movements sluggish and uncoordinated.

"What—," Usopp starts and recoils from his own voice, a rough scrape over his vocal chords.

"We were in a fight," Chopper says, his hooves turning into hands as he changes into Heavy Point to gently push Usopp back into the pillows.

Ghosts , Usopp's brain provides helpfully, and then: No. Pirates. Disguised.

For a second, a wave of panic threatens to overwhelm him, memories of cannons and explosions, too loud sounds and too bright lights washing over him in a rush. The horrible creaking of a warship twisting, turning, shifting… and screams…

"Usopp, Usopp ," Chopper urges, suddenly close, his strong, warm hands on both sides of Usopp's face, his voice something between teary and firm. "Everyone's okay. You're okay. Luffy and Zoro took them out. Everyone's okay. You got hit but you'll be fine, I promise , but you need to breathe, okay?"

Chopper counts his breaths until Usopp matches him, until the storm in his mind clears, leaving only a persistent headache and bone deep tiredness behind.

Turning back into his Brain Point form, Chopper hops off Usopp's bed and reaches for a pitcher of water on the bedside table. He helps Usopp drink, the water a blessing for the burn in his throat.

How long was he out?

"Maybe you should sleep a bit longer," Chopper says, when Usopp sinks back into the pillows. "You got banged up pretty badly." There's worry in his voice, and Usopp wants to ask but Chopper's right; sleep sounds like a brilliant idea right now. Still, he tries to fight against the heaviness of his eyelids.

"Don't worry." Suddenly, Chopper smiles, shakily, but with so much honesty in his face Usopp can't help but believe him. "I won't leave you, I promise."

*

As promised, Chopper's always there whenever Usopp wakes up in the next couple of days. Only once it's Robin sitting on the chair beside his bed, a book in her lap.

Just like Chopper, she helps him drink before he needs to lie back down. And when he asks if she got out of the battle okay, she just nods and smiles and strokes his hair out of his face until he falls back asleep.

Somewhere along the line, Usopp remembers what happened. The pirates with their disguised ghost ship. Luffy's unchangeable need to explore. The attack. The discovery that ships could also possess devil fruit powers. The fight.

It gets blurry sometime around the moment Usopp recalls climbing on top of the crow's nest, shooting a couple of chunks out of the ship's hull before…

Well, apparently the devil fruit ship had aimed a nasty cannon directly at him, not only hitting him but also throwing him into the waves.

He thinks he remembers someone screaming his name but that could just as well be part of the dream he gets ripped out of by some kind of commotion outside the infirmary.

"Chopper?" Usopp croaks. His voice is still a bit rough which apparently happens after inhaling and then throwing up several liters of salt water.

"Oh, hey, good morning." Chopper is at his side as soon as Usopp tries to sit up, shoving a pillow behind his back.

"What's happening? Are we under attack?"

Chopper sniffs, an annoyed look crossing his face. He only gets like that — protective, wary, stern — when one of them is hurt. "No, Sanji just won't stop pacing."

Sanji?

"I don't—"

Usopp doesn't even know what he wants to say to that. What he can say. Everything seems out of balance, not just since the battle, not just because he can't seem to stay awake for longer than a couple of hours at a time.

What do you want? His head replays the scene from a week ago again and again.

Nothing from you.

Nothing from you.

"What's happening." Chopper's attention focuses on him, something like panic widening his eyes. "Why are you hyperventilating again, are you having another panic attack, I thought—"

He starts going through the motions — follow my lead, breathe with me — only, Usopp's not panicking, not really. But the thing in his chest, drowsy from the shock and the pain meds and all the effort he puts into keeping it down, is suddenly rearing its head. It curls up, like flowers trying to break through the surface of the earth, trying to reach the sun.

It hurts. It's the force of it, it's the way it sneaks into everything, breaking into every part of him like weeds pushing through concrete.

It hurts .

"I don't want to see him," Usopp says.

To his credit, Chopper doesn't ask. Usopp is glad for it because he doesn't know what he could even say, how he could explain this mess he's made, the chaos in his head. He hesitates, though, his eyes flickering from Usopp to the door and back. The question is clearly visible on his face.

But he only says: "I'll tell Nami to bring you your lunch."

*

"You need to eat," Sanji says as he comes in and immediately pushes the door closed with his foot. There's a line around his mouth, like anger written onto his face with a sharpie, which almost makes Usopp miss the hesitation in his eyes for the moment it takes for Sanji to look away.

"I've eaten."

Sanji huffs and crosses the room to put the tray on the bedside table with a little too much force. The cutlery clinks against the bowl. "So you didn't tell Luffy he could have your lunch? Again? "

Usopp wrings his hands, kneading at the skin that always feels too tight when he's alone in a room with Sanji, a buzzing just underneath that makes him want to jump and run and live more than anything. That makes him want to scream and dance and cry , too.

"Go away, Sanji," Usopp says, trying to keep his voice even. If the situation was different, Usopp would've been long gone, would've fled the moment he'd heard Sanji's steps coming closer. Like this, though, just barely able to get out of bed on his own, he's stuck.

He expects Sanji to storm out again but the furious energy stays at his side, jittery and all over the place. When Usopp looks up, Sanji has crossed his arms, closed off and buttoned up to the neck, his tie like a bar across his chest.

"I don't care what's going on," he says and he almost sounds confident in his lie, like he's trying to make himself believe it, "but you've been injured, you need to get better, and you won't if you don't eat, so…" He pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down with a kind of determination that challenges Usopp to contradict him. "… I'm gonna wait here until you're done."

Usopp stares. He doesn't want to fight but something in Sanji's eyes makes him want to resist. Just a little.

Nothing from you .

"I'm not a child," he says as he picks up the bowl of soup and a spoon. "I can eat by myself."

"Then by all means." Sanji lifts his chin at him. "No one's keeping you from it."

It's a simple dish by the looks of it, even if Usopp knows that it probably needed more effort than he's ever put into food. It's also much more delicious than anything he could come up with, the hearty, warm scents of herbs and vegetables of the soup hitting his nose.

His stomach grumbles a little.

Only eating half of every meal that's been brought to him for more than a day might have been a stupid thing to do. Easy, with Luffy hanging around, but stupid. Still, he can't really regret it. Every time Nami or Brook or Chopper had come in with his tray, the thing inside of him grew and grew until it filled him up. Until just the thought of eating had made him sick.

I don't want to see him , he'd said. And Sanji had listened. Until now.

"I'm sorry," he says because it seems like the best way to start. He looks down into the bowl, pushes a piece of carrot from one side to the other.

The energy beside him crackles like ice on a lake when Sanji shifts in his seat.

"Yeah, well, be a fucking grown-up and eat your lunch then," Sanji says, stiff and distant.

Usopp dares to smile, still only stirring his spoon through the soup. "Not about that. I just don't know how to talk to you, sometimes. I—" He sighs, pulls a face at the ghost of a headache he feels creeping in. "It's like you're always ahead of me. Or— or somewhere else. Somewhere I'll never be able to reach."

"Is that why you're doing dumb shit like climbing on top of the crow's nest?" Sanji asks with a kind of tired anger. "So you're on top if you can't be ahead or whatever?"

That's not at all the point Usopp's trying to make but he'll take it. They'll get there, he realises suddenly. If he's good at anything it's talking until his words make sense.

"I'm a sharpshooter, it's the best vantage point!"

"We didn't even know what that fucking ship could do."

"So, what? I should've let you and Luffy do all the fighting?"

"At least until we had more to go on." Sanji huffs, his eyes wide and bright. It isn't until he watches him raking his hands through his hair that Usopp notices that he's looked up. "You're normally not this fucking reckless!"

"I've changed, okay?" Usopp throws his arms up, just in time realising that he's still holding a full bowl of soup in his lap that he quickly grabs with both hands. "I don't want to die, but I don't want to die like a coward even less. I can't just stay back and do nothing ."

"But I can only protect you if you're behind me."

A beat. Then another.

Usopp knows he's staring but it's hard to stop; there's something in Sanji's flushed face, something between every angrily drawn breath that he can't get a read on. Almost a lie but not quite.

After a minute, Sanji turns his head away, keeping a curtain of hair between Usopp and himself. In Sanji's world, where body language is either a flowery, over-the-top performance or a closed-off wall, he's probably not going to get any clearer signs.

"You're scared," Usopp says. He can't keep the disbelief out of his voice. Because he can't believe it, but at the same time it explains so much.

"Of course I'm fucking scared," Sanji bites back, but it's almost soft , almost quiet . He glances at Usopp, then away again, shrugs in a way that comes closer to a full-body sigh. "I don't like seeing you like this."

"Like what?" Injured? Wrapped up in bandages? Unconscious?

"In pain," Sanji says.

Usopp lifts his brows, almost wanting to laugh. This whole situation seems more absurd than rivers flowing upwards, or an ocean in the clouds, or a man out of rubber taking on the world.

"I've been hurt before," he says because it's the only thing he can think of.

"I didn't like it then, either." Sanji sniffs, shifting, squirming in his chair until his long legs are pushing into the bedframe.

"Sure…"

"I've never had friends before," Sanji says suddenly, rushing through the words so fast it takes Usopp a second to catch up. "And I don't know what I'd do if you— if any of you— if you— " He shakes his head, rubs the heel of his hand over his eye. He's not looking at Usopp when he says: "Is this what it's supposed to feel like?"

Something inside of Usopp twists at Sanji's words, something familiar, recognizable, a mirror image of the maelstrom that keeps him underwater on his darkest days. It drowns out any residual confusion, even if it can't get rid of all of his hurt feelings.

Oh , Usopp thinks. He looks at Sanji, at the way he holds himself rigid and stiff, looks at him smoothing out wrinkles in his pants and brushing lint off his sleeves. Pressed into a fixed set of shapes with an iron and the need to please. To be enough.

To not be left behind again.

"Like what?" Usopp says. He wants to reach out so badly his fingers hurt. He pulls at them again, one by one, kneads the skin over his knuckles, scratches at his old scars.

Sanji lets out a weird sound, something that gets stuck between his teeth. He grimaces, the corners of his mouth pulling down. "Don't make me say it."

For a moment, Usopp is tempted. They could leave it here, in the infirmary, this feeling between them, forever floating over herbs and pills and tinctures, over disinfectant and clean white sheets, ever so often catching the light and shimmering in the air like specks of dust. They'll always know it's there, unspoken, caught, an atmosphere of if and almost and maybe .

Usopp can picture it like one of the books his mother used to read to him when he was little, stories he got scared by and she cried over. Bittersweet tragedies.

Another moment for his shelf of mason jar memories.

He thinks of his mother when he takes a deep, deliberate breath, puts the still full bowl of soup back on the bedside table. Then he lays his hand down on the mattress, a few centimeters away from where Sanji's knees are pressed against the bed.

"Say what?"

Sanji looks down at Usopp's hand, then away again. He crosses his legs, shifting them closer. "It's obvious , isn't it?"

"Yeah, maybe." Usopp can feel the heat of Sanji's body on his fingertips. "But I— I need you to say it. Because I can't—" He lets out an almost angry huff, curls his fingers, stretches them out again. "Look, I'm sorry. About last week. I am. I'm so sorry, I didn't want— I don't want you to think that I didn't want— that . You. I— I just. I need to know. That you're not going to turn around and leave, or reconsider, or realise you don't really— that you made a mistake."

He gets it all out in a rush, stumbling over words like he's used to stumbling over his own feet. In the end, when he takes a breath, he's still not sure if he stumbled over the right ones or if he's fallen flat on his face again, but he's also not sure if it matters. His ribs hurt, his heart's pounding against them like it wants to break out of his chest, but he's finally said it. Most of it, anyway.

"Last week," Sanji starts, hoarse, still looking down. He coughs, bends forward in his seat and reaches out, puts his hand on the edge of the mattress just beside Usopp's. "I told myself I had to get it over with."

If if weren't for the shake in his voice, if it weren't for his hand inching closer and closer, Usopp would've taken that personally. Like this, it still hurts, but two years on Boin Archipelago have made him patient with stings. He can wait and see if this develops into something to worry about.

"If I could just get it out of the way, maybe it wouldn't be so weird anymore. So different."

"Different?"

"Usopp…" Sanji breathes and then, without warning and so suddenly Usopp almost pulls back on instinct, he grabs Usopp's hand, pulls it against his forehead and falls forward.

"I've missed you." Sanji's voice is muffled, face pressed into Usopp's leg. "I didn't even realise…" He trails off, his hands gripping Usopp's even tighter.

"What," Usopp says, feeling lost, his heartbeat a heavy, unsteady drum in his ears, not knowing what to say so he keeps repeating it: "What…"

"I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you on Sabaody."

"Wha—," Usopp starts, before finally getting his thoughts back under control. He frowns. " Really? You made that look a lot like you wanted to kiss Boa Hancock."

Sanji laughs, a wet hiccup that shakes his whole body. "Yeah. That, too."

It takes a minute, the situation too unprecedented for Usopp to know what to do with it. Sanji in front of him, with him like this, shielding his face, but so close. So close .

It takes a minute, but then, Usopp lifts the hand currently not in Sanji's grip and hesitantly places it on his head. He feels Sanji tensing up before taking a breath, hot even through the bedsheet against Usopp's leg. When he carefully cards his fingers through Sanji's hair, he starts to relax, slowly, incrementally, tightness leaving his neck, his shoulders, his spine.

"I wish I had," Sanji says. "Kissed you, I mean. Maybe we wouldn't be in this fucking mess."

"Because you'd have gotten it out of your system?" It's hard to keep the hint of bitterness out of his voice, to not let it show that it stings. Usopp doesn't think he manages it completely.

"Maybe." Sanji shrugs, a weird gesture in his position that makes him shift on Usopp's leg. "Maybe we could be normal again, you know. Like before."

"What’s normal?"

Sanji shifts again, this time with purpose, his head turning to look up at Usopp.

For the first time, Usopp realises how close Sanji's face is to his crotch. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, the thing inside of him squirming towards something he isn't sure he's ready for yet.

"You're my best friend."

The words hit Usopp's heart like bullets, one at a time. Not in a bad way, which is the weirdest part of it, but rather like they're filling holes inside of him instead of making them. Rather like catalysts, ready to jump-start a whole new heart he hadn't even known about.

It's all in Sanji's face, or what he can see of it. In the earnestness, in the open honesty he says it with.

"I don't know if I'm ready to give that up yet."

"O— okay," Usopp nods, shakily stroking a few strands of hair out of Sanji's eyes, this new heart of his gaining momentum through the softly desperate look on Sanji’s face. "I can wait. Just…" He tries to commit the feeling of the flush under his fingertips to memory, the way the eyebrow curls under his thumb, how silkily his hair flows through his hand. "Not forever. Don't take forever, okay?"

DINNER

The kitchen seems empty without Sanji. Of course, logically, Usopp knows that it actually is emptier, especially at night when not even Luffy is around begging for a snack. But there's a kind of energy missing , too, without Sanji here to whirl from the stove to the counter to the fridge and back, a dance Usopp's never learned the steps of.

The quiet that fills the galley stays even when he turns on the light, pushing some errant moonbeams back out into the night. He hesitates before closing the door behind him, not feeling like an intruder, not really, this is his home after all, but…

The thing is: He finally feels well enough to eat again after days of barely staying up long enough to get a bowl of soup and a slice of bread into his stomach. 

The thing is: Usopp's hungry . Has been hungry the whole day.

"Could've just asked for something," he mumbles to himself as he dares to step foot into the galley. Every step feels eerily loud, displaced, as if to remind him that he shouldn't be here.

"Could've just gone up and asked ." He pulls a face, opens the door to the pantry. "But no , you just had to give him space or whatever." Without access to the fridge, he doesn't have that much to choose from, even with a full pantry, so he spends a few agonizingly long minutes just staring at their supplies, unsure about what to do.

"He probably thinks I'm ignoring him."

The thought comes, as most of his thoughts tend to do, suddenly and without warning. Usopp blinks, takes a breath and then, before he can panic himself out of it , grabs a cup and fills it with rice.

He hasn't cooked anything in more than two years, he realises as he tries to remember how much water he needs. Really, it would've been so much easier if he'd just asked for some food during the day, like a normal person. But he has promised Sanji to wait. And waiting means not bothering him, right? Waiting means letting Sanji come to him, doesn't it? Waiting means…

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Usopp almost drops the pot he's holding, flailing and just barely catching it before it crashes to the floor, probably re-breaking one of his ribs doing so.

"Fuck, shit, oh, I'm sorry, I'm— I—"

He must've been really caught up in the water-rice-ratio-question because Sanji's made it to the bar counter without Usopp even noticing. His heartbeat's trying to jackhammer its way out into the world as he holds the pot to his chest like it's the last barrier between him and an angry chef.

"Coo—" Usopp's surprised himself how squeaky and unsure he sounds, even after he clears his throat "Cooking?"

Sanji narrows his eyes. It's not quite rage radiating off of him but it’s something close.

"Cooking," he echoes, dry and unimpressed. "Why?"

"Look, I—" Usopp forces himself to put the pot on the counter, holding up his hands towards it like he's trying to tame a wild animal. When he looks up, Sanji's still staring at him, something like a quiet, cool kind of unhappiness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I—" He starts shuffling towards the door. "I won't do it again, I promise, I know I shouldn't have—"

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Uhm." Usopp blinks. "Bed?"

"Why?"

"Well, I guess I'll try to sleep but to be honest, I'm probably going to lie awake the rest of the night, replaying this conversation," Usopp blurts out. This whole line of questioning, coupled with Sanji's icy glare, is making him more twitchy than usual. "So… I'll see you in the morning?"

"Not fucking likely."

Usopp freezes halfway to the door. "What?"

"You're hungry, that's why you came here, didn't you?" Sanji's pushing past him into the kitchen, ripping his apron from its hook on the wall. He moves with purpose, tying the apron around his waist with a kind of forceful intent that feels at odds with the late hour, with the quiet of the galley just a couple of minutes before.

This , Usopp thinks, still standing in the same spot, not wanting to move but not sure what else to do, either. This is what's missing when he's gone .

A simmering energy, purposeful, confident, that lights up the place more than any of the lamps, more than Usopp or any of the crew ever could. Not here, at least. They are just shooting stars when Sanji’s in the kitchen, making the night sky more interesting, more lively to look at, but nothing compared to the moon.

"I'm your cook ," Sanji barges into his thoughts, already getting vegetables out of the fridge. "If you're hungry, I'm cooking because that's my fucking job."

"Yeah," Usopp says, "I know." But even when Sanji glances in his direction, he's not sure he's listening to him.

"What were you trying to make?" he asks and doesn't wait for an answer, just pours the rice from Usopp's pot into a sieve. "Do you even know how to cook?"

"Kind of," Usopp says, doubting himself. He definitely wouldn't have washed the rice, not when it's almost midnight. Or ever, if he's being honest.

He leans against the bar, still not sure if he should stay; but he's strangely reminded of that late morning just about two weeks ago, when Sanji had made him his favourite breakfast and something between them that had been tied up nicely for years had started to unravel. When he'd started to reach out, when he'd almost felt the warmth of his skin, just like he'd almost tasted the smoke on his tongue when Sanji had come into his workshop that day…

Sanji has always been kind of starving, Usopp thinks sometimes, when he's alone with him, not being able to look away from the shimmer of light dropping in from the galley windows and onto Sanji's slender wrists. Starvation clings to his bone structure, always a little too angular, a little too sharp, and it hangs out of the corner of his mouth, faintly glowing.

Nicotine helps against hunger, Usopp thinks he's heard someone in Syrup say once, and maybe that's why Sanji'll never stop smoking, not even when he comes out of Chopper's regular check-up with a guilty look on his face. He always manages half a day without them, those days, just until Luffy or Zoro annoy him too much again, for whatever arbitrary reason. Then, he's back in the kitchen, distinct tangy smell drifting out of the galley.

But there's more to it than that.

Sanji's lovestruck smiles flicker when Nami puts her hand on his arm. He only shakes Chopper off his legs when he gets too clingy to walk around the kitchen properly, and he rolls his eyes just this side of fondly when Franky pats his shoulders. He leans into Luffy's enthusiastic hugs, his face a conflicting storm of emotions.

Usopp wonders what made Sanji like this. A bit prickly, quick to anger, but so eager for the simplest touch. He soaks them up like a sponge, like someone who expects every kind gesture to be temporary.

And he wants to reach out, feels the thing inside of him bloom towards the sky, every branch reaching towards Sanji. Sanji, Sanji , who's beautiful like this, even with tiredness clinging to his shoulders, his back bending under the weight of not enough sleep.

There's nothing else to look at, so Usopp looks and looks and looks, feels his heart in his throat, lodged there with so many words he can't say because he'd told Sanji he'd give him time. But Sanji is beautiful like this, and he isn't always, flinging insults at his crew mates or losing his mind whenever a woman blinks at him.

But like this. Oh, like this, confident, in his element, breathing life into this quiet, empty room, every movement a sign of how much he belongs here, he's at his most stunning; and Usopp wants to touch him so badly, wants to break all his mason jars filled with perfect, hungry memories just to come close to what he longs for. He wants to feel the heat from the stove that sticks to Sanji's skin under his own hands, wants to feel him shake against him, wants to feel the muscles in his body move, wants to touch and love and feed .

Wants.

"I'm sorry," Usopp says, when Sanji turns around to place a plate with rice and vegetables in front of him.

Sanji looks up, lashes casting long shadows over his cheek bones, emphasizing the dark shadows under his eyes.

"It's okay," he says.

"It's not," Usopp shakes his head, looking down at his late dinner. "I wanted to give you space and instead I just… ignored you."

A blush spreads over Sanji's face, slowly, as if the heat in his body shies away from showing itself. The pink tips of his ears look deliciously soft.

"We can still be friends, you know." Usopp has thought about this for the last couple of days and he knows he needs to make this sound like he means it. "I don't want you to think that— that this will mess everything up. Our friendship. Everything. But it won't. I—" He stands up straight, squares his shoulders, his hands curling into fists. He's thought about this and he's sure of it and he needs to make Sanji believe him. "I'll always be your friend. No matter what you decide. Or how long you take to decide. If it works out or if it doesn't. We'll always be friends. If you want."

"Usopp—" Sanji starts and for a moment it looks like he's reaching out, his body bending towards Usopp like he, too, grows and blooms into Usopp's direction with every inch of himself.

He lays his hand on top of Usopp's, his fingertips a soft pressure on Usopp's knuckles.

Usopp can feel his whole being focusing on this point of contact, hand relaxing under Sanji’s touch, and for a few seconds they just stand there, waiting for the end of the world as they know it.

When Sanji pulls back, slowly, slowly, there's so much longing in his eyes that it seems, even with a steaming bowl of rice on the counter before Usopp, that he's the one being eaten by his own hunger.

MIDNIGHT SNACKS

The sea is dark and quiet and Usopp feels at rest like this more than he ever used to, up in the crow's nest, the distant heartbeats of his crew and the plants in his garden just in reach. He takes a few ideas with him on watch, blueprints and little things he can tinker on, keeping his hands and mind busy.

It gets lonely, here, sometimes, when his mind is the only thing distracting him from everything around him. When the sea is his only companion in the night, a special species of a monster, a most dangerous friend, if he can even call it that. At night, the horizon melts away, black sky bleeding into black sea, and only by looking at the stars does he still know which way is up. Otherwise it just feels like drifting.

Drifting and waiting.

He waits for the end of the night.

For an island or a ship to come into view.

For the sound of steel-tipped dress shoes coming up the ladder.

Sanji's head pokes through the hatch first. He places a basket onto the floor of the crow's nest before lifting himself up into the room, hair falling into his face, the muscles in his arms moving under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt.

"I tried something new," Sanji says, crouching to unpack a thermos, two cups, and a metal tin from the basket.

"Is it warm?" Usopp asks, although he can already guess. "I think we're getting close to an autumn island, it's freezing ."

Sanji looks up and raises an eyebrow. "A shirt could help, you know," he says, dryly. "You're not Grass-for-Brains, you don't have to show off like that."

Usopp feels heat spread through his body and into his face. He's only wearing his overalls, having abandoned his shirt sometime during the day when he'd been working. Now, he's forcing his nerves to be quiet and flexes his biceps, trying out a boasting, nervous grin.

"So you think I have something to show off?"

The shakiness of his voice is worth it when Sanji flushes and turns away with a huff. "Shut up."

Usopp bites his lip and watches Sanji pouring a steaming, creamy liquid into their cups and serving crumbly, golden-brown biscuits from the metal tin on a plate.

"It's hot chocolate but I added some chili and cayenne," Sanji says, a little bit faster than usual. With a practiced flourish, he pours whipped cream and chocolate syrup over their drinks, before holding out one cup for Usopp. "Tell me if it's too spicy."

Of course it's not. Of course it's heavenly, the bitterness of the dark chocolate and the sweetness of the whipped cream coming together in a spicy heat that warms Usopp from the inside out.

He moans, eyes going wide as he takes another sip, letting the taste linger on his tongue. "That's so good ."

Sanji, still with a pink face, grins. "It is, isn't it? I thought about a bit of rum, too, but maybe that's too much."

"It's perfect," Usopp says, meaning it. Not just about the drink, though.

It's about everything; about the way Sanji starts to relax at his words, some of the ever-present tension in his shoulders flowing out of him, about the way his movements grow animated as he talks about his recipes, and especially about all the ways Usopp could get used to this kind of company. Night watch always tends to turn on him after a couple of hours, the vastness of the world shoving feelings of loneliness and inadequacy into his thoughts to stumble over.

Not with Sanji here, though.

I love you , Usopp thinks. He nibbles at a biscuit — sharp with ginger, crunchy, not too sweet, just how he likes them best — tinkers with a new mechanism for Nami's staff and thinks: I love you. I want to know you forever. I want to know you all over.

"Sanji," Usopp says, brushing biscuit crumbs off of his hands.

And Sanji stills, arms mid-gesture, and he's all long limbs and pink skin and wrinkles in his suit. And there are some strands of hair sticking out from his head at a weird angle, as if he's combed through it with his hands too much, and there's a bit of chocolate syrup on his upper lip, and he needs to shave. And he's not perfect but he kind of is.

"Sanji," he repeats, tasting his name on his tongue before he swallows it, letting it fall into his stomach. The thing inside of him growls and feeds.

People say you can't exist on air and love alone, but maybe this will be enough. The Grand Line has given him so many miraculous things already.

Beside him, Sanji breathes in, and the air inside the crow's nest — autumn crisp, midnight dreamy — shifts . Sanji looks at him, visible eye wide like he never wants to look away, trying to get it all in, and Usopp feels his determination growing in this stare.

They're not sitting close but close enough for Usopp to recognize Sanji's fight with his own fears, his hesitation as he turns toward him just enough, opening up even as he exhales shakily.

"I'm—," Sanji starts, and stops, this painful hunger written all over his face again, like he's sitting in front of a meal he's afraid will be taken away as soon as he starts eating.

Like he, too, is thinking about preserving all of these moments in mason jars, to stick his fingers in from time to time and lick them clean.

Usopp watches as Sanji swallows and he feels himself expand in all directions, as if horizon and ocean and stars aren't intimidating anymore, as if they're all just waiting to be explored. Bravery can be funny like that, hitting you unexpectedly, unplanned, sudden, and it's almost easy to move closer like this, courage thrumming through his veins.

When he stops, he's close enough to touch but he doesn't, waits for Sanji to reach out, to put his hand on his knee. Usopp can't suppress a shiver and he doesn't want to.

"I’m—," Sanji says.

And this is when Usopp pulls him in, when he fists his hands around his collar, spares a fraction of a thought to the feeling of his knuckles brushing against Sanji's neck before he kisses him.

Finally finally finally.

They've had two years to prepare for this.

Sanji opens up, licking into Usopp's mouth like he's trying to get a taste of his own recipe off his tongue. His hands stroke over his thighs aimlessly, stopping, suddenly, not shy but hesitant, when they reach the bare skin of his back, and Sanji pulls back a little to look at him as one hand slides up Usopp’s spine to his shoulder blades, the other reaching up further, leaving lines of heat on his neck, his jaw, his cheek.

Usopp mirrors him, strokes his thumb over the stubble on Sanji's jaw, over his cheekbone, over his lower lip, feels Sanji's breath on his skin. The night catches the edges of the thing inside him and sets it on fire.

"I'm ready," Sanji says, just as breathless, ravished, insatiable, and he pulls Usopp in again.