Chapter Text
“Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards.”
—Benjamin Franklin
Objectively speaking, Sanji’s wedding day is not the worst thing to ever happen to him – there are far too many contenders for that title, but the day of his mother’s death is probably the one topping the chart – but it is on the list somewhere. And not at the bottom, at that.
It is not the wedding he’s envisioned time and time again in the golden years he’d spent aboard Zeff’s ship, with a cream-white cake, rose petals and a smiling wife holding onto his arm. A happy, joyful thing crowded by friends he’d have made somehow, with music shooting up from Carne’s saxophone and the old man trying to dance only to go pest about the entrées not being up to standard when he’d have been out of dancing partners willing to waltz around his peg leg.
Granted, sometimes the visions he’d conjure would be far out of the realm of possibility – most of them would include his mother, after all – but on the whole, they had seemed like very achievable dreams, at the time. Something he felt safe indulging on, because he’d been out of Germa, never to see his blood relatives again, and he had managed to build a somewhat stable life at the Baratie. He’d told himself he would meet a girl one day, make her blush with a flowery compliment, wine and dine her under the moonlight and ask her to marry him on a beach, their fingers interlaced around the delicate diamond ring he’d have presented her with. Corny, yes, and nauseatingly saccharine, if the cooking brigade at the Baratie was to be believed, but conceivable. Easy. Safe.
Or so he’d thought.
They had come just as they were wrapping up the first evening service, a whole iron fleet surrounding the Baratie and its customers’ ships. There hadn’t been anyone in the East Blue strong enough to put up a fight against Germa 66 when Sanji had escaped as a child, and there certainly wasn’t anyone capable of that ten years later. There had been terms, cold and clear: Sanji was to go back to the North Blue and be as much of the rightful son he was expected to be as he could, or Zeff would lose his other leg, and every other limb after that.
(Germa was never so good at spies, but whispers travel fast in the underworld. It makes Sanji sick, even now, to think of all the gratitude he has for the mean old man dissected upon a table to strategize about how to bring him back with the least fuss. Germa always had a way of making love feel dirty.)
He’d gone with them, of course, even when every mouth had screamed at him not to. He’d boarded the snail ship on steady legs and tried not to turn back until they were far enough for him not to have to look at Zeff’s face. He’d misjudged the distance, of course; or maybe he’d have been able to pick on his father of heart’s sorrow and rage from anywhere in the world.
And then, two years. The syrupy-slow trickle of time. Bruises and broken limbs. Reiju’s impassible eyes checking over his bandaged body. That ache in his throat for a taste of smoke, the jitters in his hands deprived from holding even a butter knife, the deadly silence of his rooms on the flagship when he’d grown up loving the ruckus of the coup de feu.
All of that to end up here. At Sanji’s wedding. Next to a man he’d only ever heard of in the papers.
Oh, he knows who Roronoa Zoro, the Demon Pirate Hunter, is. Just because he’s been pretty much locked up inside his quarters for two years doesn’t mean he doesn’t keep himself updated on the affairs of the world. He’s aware of the place the Strawhat Pirates have managed to snatch for themselves amongst the chaos of the new Pirate Era, even if they only started getting big after Sanji was ripped away from the East Blue. He knows their type too: fame-hungry, brash and powerful.
They’re big, going after Warlords, kings and emperors. On the edge of greatness, some would say. Certainly big enough for Vinsmoke Judge to consider and subsequently ally himself with. Why that had to involve Sanji in any way is a question for the ages, and one he’ll never ask because he values Zeff’s life too much to risk it by winding up his bastard of a biological father.
So here he is, in Germa’s banquet hall, being married to the Demon of the East. It is quite literally a match made in Hell, and Sanji can’t even complain about it. They drank out of the same cups of sake, each one bigger and more bitter on Sanji’s tongue, a taste even the sweetness of the cake couldn’t wash away. The whole time he could feel Reiju’s eyes on him, cold as always. She means well, he knows. She’s only ever meant well.
His husband, if Germa’s standards are to be believed, is the most desirable he will ever get. Wide and strong, with the infamous three swords at his hip and a trail of blood in his wake. Sanji knows the type. Powerful. Cruel. Ruthless. His brothers are like that. Even his sister is, sometimes.
Sanji’s own standards couldn’t be more different. Besides his general preference towards women, he honestly can’t get past the man’s reputation. Roronoa entered the Grand Line with a massacre on Whisky Peaks and never wandered away from that path since.
What’s it going to be like, being that man’s property? he’d asked Reiju when she had come to deliver the news. Pirates have never been husband material. Especially not that one.
“Some people say he’s handsome,” Reiju had said, like hearsay was going to make Sanji feel better.
“He has a headful of vegetable and a hideous scar for a left eye.”
“He’s your age. None of father’s other candidates could manage that.”
She was the one weighting in favor of Roronoa since their father had first talked of securing an alliance, that he knows. She’d explained to him, in that quiet, lifeless tone of hers, all the reasons why she’d pushed for that choice when there had been so many others. “He is strong, which father values above all, and his captain is a figure we felt confident enough to bet on. They have land, since Fishman Island is under their protection, and probably a good amount of funds to match. You could be comfortable, with them. And your husband would be a powerful man. He could protect you, if he desires so.”
“But will he?” What incentive would Roronoa Zoro have, to care for him at all? It’s not like Sanji would be in a position to complain to Judge, if he was treated badly. After all, Judge hadn’t cared for his own wife either.
“I can’t say,” was Reiju’s answer. Bone-chilling words. “This is a bet I made myself. The other choices were Marshall D. Teach and Warlord Buggy. I had even less hope for those.”
God, he’s always loved Reiju – will always love her, even when it hurts him – but she never was anything close to comforting.
In the end, he’s still here. You can’t outrun doom, even when you have the kind of legs Sanji has. Soon enough, Roronoa turned up at their door – alone, Reiju had revealed to him, and there was probably a story there but honestly Sanji wasn’t in the mood to hear it – and a wedding celebration was quickly put together, probably in the case Roronoa would change his mind and go on a rampage before he was legally bonded to the Vinsmokes.
The Pirate Hunter will probably have Judge’s full support if he decides to go on that rampage after the wedding. Which is probably why the king of Germa is trying to butter the man up so obviously.
Sanji knows the steward of Germa’s main ship made a conscious and painstakingly thorough effort to comply with the customs of their esteemed guest’s country of origin. The taste of Shimotsuki’s silky tofu comes on Sanji’s tongue heavy-handed and acrid with nostalgia. His husband, however, has barely touched the food, favoring instead a cup of imported sake that a diligent servant fills up to the brim anytime he does as little as lean into his direction. There’s one on Sanji’s side too, but her services are less frequently requested.
Sanji is starting to suspect he may have married a drunkard. Honestly, he should have expected it. It’s unpleasant, but Judge can’t possibly approve of it, and you know what they say about small blessings.
“You talk?” comes a grunt from said drunk. His voice is gravel-rough.
You know I can, you bastard, I said my wedding vows to you, you were there. “Yes, I can talk.”
The man grunts again before taking a swig of his cup. Some of it spills on the sleeve of the clothes he’d arrived in, three whole days ago. “Your sister said you were trained. Can you fight?”
Maybe he likes them fighting for their life, suggests Sanji’s traitorous mind. Will this be a repeat of the beatings he used to get – is getting again now – when he was a child? Slipping away from cruel hands into crueler ones, without even Reiju’s cool touch to lessen his pain?
“I can hold my own,” he states plainly, hoping it will be enough to get Roronoa to back off.
The man smiles, a shark-like thing that makes his lone grey eye glint ominously. “You’ll have to show me, Curls.”
What the fuck did you just call me? Is what Sanji would like to snarl at him, just as much as he’d want to cave the Demon of the East’s single working eye in. Once again, he paints a neutral face over his frustrations and responds: “If that’s what you want.”
That grey eye, looking him up and down. “Wouldn’t be there if I didn’t.”
It’s a good thing they get interrupted, because Sanji was about to unwisely kick back the guy’s leer into his scarred face. Reiju stands before them in a powder-pink puffy dress that tries and fail to make her look more fragile than she is. “Commander Roronoa, I would like to borrow my brother for a farewell dance. Do you permit it?”
Sanji’s god-forsaken husband waves them off as he gulps down yet another cup of sake. “Yeah, sure. Not like I’m dancing with him anyway.”
Sanji takes her hand with all the gratitude he can muster. “I can’t say no to you, dear sister.” Please get me the fuck away from him.
The music starts – a dreadful North Blue classic – and they bow as one, in the rigid way Germa has favored for centuries. Then Reiju’s pearl-white hand slips into his, and they begin dancing.
His sister was always so well-suited for the waltz. Her shoulders are perfectly set, her arms never wavering. She probably isn’t enjoying any of the pleasure brought on by dancing, but it means something to Sanji that she would give him this.
The music is slow, but noisy enough that they can talk without anyone hearing. Between two elegant swirls, Sanji grits: “I can’t fucking stand him. He’s a brute, a drunk and a bastard.”
“He is a means to an end,” Reiju answers. She doesn’t say, as we all are, but he hears it anyway. “If it consoles you, father does not like him either.”
“He likes him enough to want an alliance with him and his captain.”
“In Germa of old, such an alliance would never have been entertained. Not with commoners, and lowly criminals at that. But Germa of old is long gone.”
“Not gone enough. We’re still here after all.”
He knows his words can’t hurt her, but she does subtly step on his toes, admonishing. “Have some pride, Sanji. We’re still powerful blood, even if our glory days have passed.”
“Blood has never been of any good to me, Reiju.”
They spin, her pink dress swirling like the stretched wings of a butterfly. “I know.”
She won’t say she’s sorry. He will forgive her for it. There is so little emotion she can feel, but he knows most of those have been for him. It counts, somewhere. And this may be the last time he sees her at all. She’s the last person here who ever loved him – for that he will never say anything of reproach to her.
When the dance ends, they both bow again, as stilted as is expected of them. Sanji means to ask for another dance, a desperate opportunity to be away from his husband for a few minutes more, but Reiju leans towards him and whispers: “Your wedding night is approaching. I thought you would want to know.”
A shard of ice pierces down Sanji’s back. “How long ‘til I have to go?”
“Sooner than later would be preferable. Father has been talking to Roronoa since I took you with me.”
A quick look towards the main table confirms her words. Judge is hovering over Roronoa’s smaller form, his face painted in the disdainful look he takes on when negotiating with associates he looks down to. The Pirate Hunter doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to him, instead emptying yet another cup of sake – if he was any other man, Sanji would have appreciated the scorn he’s eliciting from the king of Germa, but like this, it taunts him with how much a man like Roronoa can get away with Judge, when Sanji himself never could.
He looks back to Reiju, and her usually lifeless eyes are, for once, full of something that might be pity. “I will walk you to your room. Father will want to know you made yourself available.” Sanji is going to be sick.
From the other side of the room, he can see their brothers staring at him like they know what’s happening – Ichiji probably does, Yonji probably doesn’t, and Niji was always the most difficult to assess. The later makes a move to come their way, but something in Reiju’s posture must convey how much of a bad idea that would be, and he doesn’t follow them as they exit.
Sanji can still hear what they would have said as they would have walked beside him in cold hallways. Snide remarks and cruel jabs, allusions to what Roronoa would do to him, about how he’s going to be tarnished by a commoner’s hands. The words don’t terrify Sanji as much as they once would have, but they still pull at painful strings.
As much as the Germa fleet boasts its greatness, there’s only so much space on a ship, and they reach Sanji’s rooms in a matter of minutes. The bed is pristine, the door unlocked. Reiju’s hand is cold when it touches his arm.
“I will be bringing your husband to you, dear brother.”
He knows it would be futile to plead with her not to, but he almost does it anyway. Better her than anyone else, he thinks as she closes the door on him.
Sanji stays in the dark for a few moments. His eyes are good in the darkness – they had to be – and he doesn’t feel like presenting Roronoa Zoro with a clear, inviting image when he gets his drunk ass here. The most he’s willing to shed is the hideous cape Germa insists he wears in all formal occasions and he pointedly doesn’t take any step towards the bed.
He wants nothing more than to welcome his new husband with his foot raised and a mouthful of spit, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. This violation too he must endure, for Zeff’s sake, for everything he’s ever loved. What if the Pirate Hunter likes to leave ’em bloody and broken? He’s been through it already. The new parts, the ones the Vinsmokes gave this man the right to enact over him, can’t be that different. At some point, pain loses its novelty and blurs into banality.
Heavy steps, and look at that, Sanji was hoping the man would be too thick to parse through Judge and Reiju’s polite invitation to go and consummate his marriage instead of drinking the wine cellar dry, but it seems that too was only wishful thinking. There’s fumbling, stretching the moment unnecessarily long, until the door unlocks itself with an ominous click.
Roronoa – he should stop calling him that, Ichiji’s rasping voice whispers inside his mind, after all he’s a Roronoa too, now – looms over him from the doorway. His face looks ever more somber when he’s backlit by the fading light of the hallway, like a monster’s maw ready to burst out of the darkness. His one eye racks over Sanji’s rigid figure on the bed, scrutinizing.
One step closer, then another, and another, each one heavier than the last. Sanji forces himself to keep looking at him head-on, even as blood beats against his temples and urges his whole body to move, fight, move! There’s dignity to uphold even in this.
Come on, I’ll show you what I’ve got, Demon.
And then, Roronoa walks past him and falls right into the untouched bed.
A nervous moment passes, so still and so silent that Sanji doesn’t dare moving for fear that something might happen – the roof collapsing upon itself, the whole ship cracking down into the sea, the Demon of the East turning over and devouring him whole. It feels like something ought to shatter, but doesn’t. Instead, Roronoa snores, a long, drawn-out noise. He’s dead to the world, and the smell of expensive sake stains the air around him like ink in water.
Holy fuck, did his husband just pass the fuck out on their wedding night?!
Sanji drops onto the ground, and doesn’t scream. But it’s a near thing.