[ the first time anyone celebrated sanji's birthday had been disastrous. patty had sussed it out of him when he was turning twelve, and sanji had thought nothing of it, having spent far too many birthdays without a birthday to expect one now — but then he'd walked into the kitchen for breakfast prep, and everyone at the baratie jumped out and started singing behind an enormous, flaming cake, and sanji had felt his soul leave his body. he'd been so spooked that he'd instantly burst into uncontrollable sobs, much to zeff's horror, and then when reality scratched the surface and he realized it was his birthday they were all celebrating, he'd been even more inconsolable.
it hadn't been the last birthday of his they'd celebrated together, just the worst one. but after that, zeff learned quickly of sanji's intolerance to surprises, and it had been (relatively) smooth sailing from then on. to this day, sanji doesn't put much importance on his birthday anyway, telling no one, not even nami and zoro, and he's glad for it because he wakes up like every other day as of late — with bile in his throat and an urgent need to piss.
the sun is barely up as he hangs over the toilet, hacking up the little he'd been able to stomach the night before. whatever's happening to his body, he's not a fucking fan. straightening, he plucks his crisp shirt from where it's hanging on the back of the door, pulling it on and cuffing the sleeves, then dragging his trousers up and notching the belt. he looks almost normal, if not for the velveteen ears drooping into his hair. thanks to his renewed connection with nami, his antlers are hidden away because he's tired of hearing zoro complain about the constant threat of losing an eye in his sleep.
speaking of eyes. he brushes his hair down over the gray one, and then hears a noise from the kitchen. his gaze narrows, and then he's striding out, ready to pin an intruder to the wall with his foot, but the sight that greets him is far more horrifying. he's twelve again, facing a room of rambunctious cooks and a flaming cake — except the cake is almost certainly going to sink in the next five minutes, if it's lucky.
normally, he'd start with what she did right (a lot, actually — it's still functionally cake), and then go into why it's about to topple. but his eyes prickle hotly, and something sticky clogs his throat, and his mood tilts far, far to the left.
he slams a hand down on the counter, rattling sugary bowls and sticky spoons. the cake, to its credit, stands tall. ]
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it hadn't been the last birthday of his they'd celebrated together, just the worst one. but after that, zeff learned quickly of sanji's intolerance to surprises, and it had been (relatively) smooth sailing from then on. to this day, sanji doesn't put much importance on his birthday anyway, telling no one, not even nami and zoro, and he's glad for it because he wakes up like every other day as of late — with bile in his throat and an urgent need to piss.
the sun is barely up as he hangs over the toilet, hacking up the little he'd been able to stomach the night before. whatever's happening to his body, he's not a fucking fan. straightening, he plucks his crisp shirt from where it's hanging on the back of the door, pulling it on and cuffing the sleeves, then dragging his trousers up and notching the belt. he looks almost normal, if not for the velveteen ears drooping into his hair. thanks to his renewed connection with nami, his antlers are hidden away because he's tired of hearing zoro complain about the constant threat of losing an eye in his sleep.
speaking of eyes. he brushes his hair down over the gray one, and then hears a noise from the kitchen. his gaze narrows, and then he's striding out, ready to pin an intruder to the wall with his foot, but the sight that greets him is far more horrifying. he's twelve again, facing a room of rambunctious cooks and a flaming cake — except the cake is almost certainly going to sink in the next five minutes, if it's lucky.
normally, he'd start with what she did right (a lot, actually — it's still functionally cake), and then go into why it's about to topple. but his eyes prickle hotly, and something sticky clogs his throat, and his mood tilts far, far to the left.
he slams a hand down on the counter, rattling sugary bowls and sticky spoons. the cake, to its credit, stands tall. ]
What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?