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None of the gas lamps worked in their new home. Not yet anyway. Zeff and Sanji had just settled themselves into the newly built floating restaurant, it had taken the better part of a year to build but at last it was done. Walls still soaked with the scent of fresh paint, the grout bridging the pale-blue kitchen tiles together still immaculate. Unblemished with splatters of oil and grime.
Sorting out the kitchen had, of course, been the greatest priority for the small, feisty blond boy and the former pirate captain—sorting, resorting, and scurrying about here and there under his instruction, Sanji had managed to follow every barked command to a T.
His eyes shone with fascination and a burning enthusiasm, each box they opened led to a whole new flurry of questions and furious tapping against Zeff’s shoulder as he crouched next to the open box, picking at the tape to release the equipment from its bubble wrap prison — “What do we use this for?”, “Why’s this look like that?”, “Oi geezer, what do we have these for?”
There were only two boxes left but alas the wood gnawing at his new stub—the peg incessant on grating away what was left of his leg—was too much to bare and Zeff found himself in a chair, the boy had it in with his scrawny arms from the main dining area. He was still a small thing, a frustrated mop of blond hair just peeking out from behind the furniture as he set it down with a huff.
“You’re just trying to get out of work, old man!”
Mouthy brat. He had a whole lot of nerve for someone who decided to run off, drag that chair into the kitchen and shove Zeff on to it.
“Fine, I’ll do it all myself! That’s the only way to do it all properly anyway!”
“Whatever you say shrimp,” Zeff managed to slip out before a scrunched up ball of bubble wrap was thrown at his head.
He dodged it easily and let it slowly open back up in his hand, like a bud coming to bloom in the rough patch that was his hand - the skin dry and tough. Sun-ironed and rope-kissed. The hand of a pirate, the hand of a chef. The plastic was morphing back into a vague silhouette of its previous shape.
It gave him something to do at least, something to fiddle with, running his calloused fingers over each smooth bubble, pressing firmly and feeling the thin skin burst, each bubble of every row, methodically crushed between his fingers, the light sound echoing in his loose fist. It was the only other sound besides the patter of little soles flitting around the kitchen.
The last of the boxes had finally been folded (by Zeff, still stuck in his chair) and put away (by Sanji in their empty pantry) by the time the sun was swallowed back under the sea, whatever lasting rays were fractured by the shining metal of their new pots and kitchen tools. Long shadows dancing across the walls and floor, as if congratulating them on their hard work.
It was perfect.
Except for the bubble wrap still thrown across the floor in the boy’s excitement. Although Zeff has a suspicious feeling, he too, wanted to pop the little bubbles. While he was staring out the window, large eyes sparkling at the sinking sun and the glittering waves, Zeff rose from his chair with a well concealed hiss and smoothed out the bubble wrap flat across the floor as best he could.
“Oi, Eggplant, if you’re going to do your job do it properly - the hell is all this over my floors?”
His head whipping round fast with a scowl rivalling Zeff’s own, only if the boy wasn’t also pouting, that is, his frown almost comical and his face somehow perfectly round with the way his cheeks puffed out.
“I put everything away properly just like you kept barking at me to, geezer! What now?” Sanji was obviously more upset that his time to admire the sea and the swallowed sun was interrupted. As though he were afraid it may suddenly disappear if he didn’t keep his eyes glued to the sight. What an odd boy, didn’t he grow up on that Orbit ship?
“What’s all this shit then?” Zeff makes a point of crushing the bubble wrap under his only foot, the squeak of plastic slipping under the rapid popping of multiple air bubbles at once.
With a lot more eagerness than Zeff was sure he wanted to exude, he watched the little Eggplant’s eyes glitter at the silly sound, scrambling down from the countertop he had clambered up onto to get a better view of the sea. He rushed his way over to the thin carpet of bubble wrap. Raising a little foot, clad in a near fraying shoe, he stomped down with all his might—a litany of pops following in their wake.
Zeff left the boy to crush all of the bubble wrap to his heart’s content. Not without a light, tinkling giggle bouncing around their fully furnished kitchen.
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As much as he would like to keep working all night, it just wasn’t the best idea. They had enough money to hire help but Zeff wanted to do it all himself—painting the dining room the right colour, arranging the chairs and tables just so. Hell if he could he would’ve built the damn thing from the ground up, but that wasn’t feasible at all.
Following their eventual rescue from that barren rock, Zeff had been bandaged up, plugged with feeding tubes, prodded with all sizes of needles, and subjected to all manner of tests. The bag of skin and bones bandaged up next to his hospital bed, rattling chest and shaking breath the only proof he was still alive, equally laden with IVs and only God knew what else in a similar if not worse position. How on earth were they still alive?—Zeff knew quite well how and why he was alive.
He had a job to do, a dream to fulfil.
Even if it wasn’t the one he could find when sailing the Grandline, the one that had set his heart ablaze with the desire to scour the world’s oceans and mysteries in search of the All Blue.
Dreams could change.
And as much as he’d like to ponder the nature of man and their dreams, he was aching for some good sleep.
He had taken himself upstairs after leaving the Eggplant to his devices, sorting out the single bedroom they had upstairs. Sheets sea-fresh and cold from the wind outside, only the moon and a dim candle to light their room—none of the gas lamps worked yet you see. It was incredibly bare, barren of life, and proof that the living had touched this place. Ironic, who else built this place except those same human hands? It was so unlike his captain’s cabin. Now wasn’t the time to think of the things he had lost. That was a long time ago, and he had already come to terms with it.
They only had one room for now but once business was good Zeff had plans to renovate and build another bedroom but now was not the time for that, he smoothed out the sheets for the two beds on opposite sides of the room. Their black metallic frame sturdy and minimal.
In all this time Zeff had yet to hear a peep from downstairs. The sheets were smoothed, his clothes hung, teeth brushed, moustache combed—but where on earth was Eggplant? The sun had been devoured an hour ago or so and the sky had drawn its velvet curtain. He wasn’t already fucking something up was he?
Zeff dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. The reality of that question being quite real, the boy was always doing something. Never a moment's rest, even in the hospital where all they were supposed to do was stay bed bound and recover. Not like Zeff quite followed the doctor's instructions either.
Lighting another candle, he was about to make his way back downstairs when something ran at full speed and smacked right into him: “What the hell geezer! Why are you standing in front of the door?”
There he was. Nothing to worry about Zeff supposed. As long as he wasn't lost. Or trying to start a fire somewhere and feed some creature or the other. He’d seen him do it at the hospital every now and again. “We’ve got a whole lot of shit to do tomorrow, hurry up and sleep so we can start early. I don’t want to hear you whining,”
“I do not whine! Get lost!” Sanji refuted, but the anger he was trying to pour into his words sounded shaky, wobbly—forced. It was only when Zeff looked down at the boy still pressed to his front did he notice the flamed red around the kid’s eyes. The fat round wet tears welled up and the poorly hidden quiver of his lip.
Ah. The gas lamps didn’t work did they?
Even then it’s not like Sanji could reach them all by himself, even if he stood on a chair. Shit.
Zeff’s stern expression was unperturbed, looking back up to save the boy’s pride. He probably didn’t want Zeff to see him cry again. A hand coming to the top of Sanji’s head. Heavy and warm. First thing tomorrow, he was going to get the gas lamps working.
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This had happened before, at the hospital. There was a gas shortage during that long, long year so whatever the hospital had on hand had to be rationed and curfews were placed for a few months. Usually the nurses would leave one or two lamps on in each and every room in case of emergency, the light soft and yellow.
It wouldn't bite and prick anyone and most people would be asleep by the time they had to implement the curfew anyway.
All patients except Zeff and Sanji Red (paperwork, you must understand, it’s simply what the chart says).
Crumpled paper, pencil sharpenings, graphite dust from crushed pencil smeared all over his fingers, Sanji and Zeff would spend all day everyday talking about the floating restaurant. What it should look like (Sanji would have very crude drawings and Zeff would translate it best he could with the sketching skills he had), what the colours it should be (Sanji was very good at colouring in the lines), what the open day menu should look like, what the menu for special occasions should look like, on and on all day everyday—revision after revision after revision that’s all the two would talk about, even late into their talk would delve into more cooking based discussions. The best way to cook this thing or that, their arguing and bickering, giving the other patients something to listen to instead of the droning of their own empty minds.
It was a lot harder to talk or to do the very very important job of colouring in the sketch of their floating restaurant if Sanji was sitting all the way over in his bed. He simply made himself welcome in Zeff’s hospital bed instead— tell the former pirate to ‘shove over’ and that Zeff probably doesn't have an artist's bone in his body and Sanji has to do it because he’s the best at it. Problem solved.
The staff had somewhat given up on telling Zeff and Sanji that neither of them were allowed to move and they both needed to stay put. They had tried moving Sanji’s bed as close as possible to Zeff’s and when that still ended up with Sanji clambering his way into Zeff’s space they gave up entirely.
It was one of these curfew nights when it had happened, Zeff and Sanji were the only two patients awake again whisper-arguing over which desserts where the best: “Tiramisu—easily, don’t even bother saying anything else old man,” Zeff had retorted with a snicker and a snide, “You’ve gone and dropped your head boy, pick it up and think again!”
One of the nurses had slipped in, smiling lightly to herself—they’re identical copies of each other, what an interesting father and son— completely turning down the two lamps on the other side of the room before making her swift exit so as to not disturb their talk.
In her haste she did not see the way Sanji’s eyes had immediately widened in fear at the sudden darkness.
The way his hand instinctively reached out to grab something, anything, close to him, to ground him. He was here in a hospital, not there—no not there, anywhere but there. His face had fallen, as if cast in a mask of complete terror, he trembled in place not knowing where to look or at what. It was too dark— too fucking dark; it moved the dark moved. It did! It did—it really really did, Sanji saw it! Right there in the middle, the right, the left— all of it—everywhere! He’s no fucking liar, he saw it— the grip on whatever he was holding got tighter, his eyes began to burn with how long he was staring into the dark. He refused to blink, no, no— you can’t blink otherwise it’ll move and you won’t know where to find it again and then it’ll come and get you and crawl under your fingernails and inside your skin and make holes inside your ears, it’ll eat your tongue and slither down your throat— you can’t you can’t you can’t
He really is just a boy, thought Zeff as he looked down at his vest, barely making out the wobbling little fist bunched up in his clothes, shaking like a leaf, knuckles so white they practically glowed.
Sanji was scared of the dark— not just scared: bloody fucking terrified. It was the most eloquent way Zeff could put it.
With all the gentleness he could muster, Zeff managed to whisper, “Sanji.” It was far more tender than he thought himself capable.
Sanji didn’t turn, but the grip on his vest didn’t let up either. Instead he managed, fumbling all the way and leaving all the curses to frustrated breaths, to wrap the extra blanket around the boy’s shaking form, making sure the loose flaps were tucked in tight around him.
To Zeff's imagination he looked a little funny—all swindled up in a blanket 3 times his size. He couldn’t see most of his face, the folds of the blanket spilling up and out of its coil to cover Sanji’s quivering lip. It made it a lot easier to just pick him up.
After some more shuffling of his own blanket, and easy manhandling of the little frightened cannoli, he finally managed to lay himself down for bed, Sanji facing him.The blanket clad child had still not closed his eyes and they were welled to the brim with round, fat tears refusing to spill. Zeff sighed internally, cry if you want, don’t if you don’t want to. Makes no difference. Scary things are scary for a reason.
At least his breathing had calmed down.
Zeff closed his own weary eyes and tried to get some shut eye, there was only so much he could do. Only so much he had the capacity for. “Night Sanji,” far softer than he thought possible. It was perhaps only a few seconds after he had uttered those words but soon after he felt the blankets wiggling, Sanji welcoming himself under Zeff’s own blanket as though it belonged to Sanji from the very beginning, and taking Zeff’s arm as the best pillow.
Zeff didn’t move for the rest of the right.
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Back at the newly formed Baratie Zeff had managed to convince Sanji to at least change his clothes and drink a bit of water before letting him dash to the nearest bed and hide himself under the covers.
There was only so much he could do.
Zeff would just take the other one. Keeping one eye open on the boy as he made himself comfortable in the other bed, he shuffled under the covers and moved himself closest to the wall. He just liked the cold is all.
When he heard the rustle and slide of the little Eggplant plod his way over he snapped the eye shut, pretending to sleep. He felt the presence of the scared little boy staring at the empty space in his bed, afraid that he was not allowed to be scared and seek comfort. Not that Zeff hoped he was capable of that— of comfort—that was entirely up to Sanji what he found comforting or not.
Sanji pulled back Zeff’s duvet cover and welcomed himself to that empty space anyway, still wrapped in a different blanket. Taking Zeff’s arm as the best pillow.
Zeff didn’t move an inch.