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Early in the morning, he makes his way to the galley, footsteps gentle, shadow barely there. He takes a step into the boundary of his galley, and the air changes. The walls glow, the stove hums, the wind whistles through the crack of the door. There's something alive in here, he's sure of it. Anticipatory, thrumming with energy, there's a million souls in the flame and the fridge of this galley, he's so so sure of it. They're all waiting.
At dawn, the Thousand Sunny's galley is halfway to something holy.
He greets the utensils first, lays them out, mumbles some thanks. Then, he does the same with the meat, the vegetables, the spices, the grains.
Along the way, Sanji'd built his own set of beliefs, an amalgamation of Zeff's ideals and Sora's faiths. His mother had given him a steadfast love to keep during cold winter days while Zeff had taught him a set of rules grounded in reality. He'd reconciled them, taken parts from each and made up the rest with starry eyes and a colourful imagination, as a kid with a heart full of hope and a mind full of fairytale stories does.
Sweep the floor so the kitchen's clean, sweep out the bad luck with the dust. Face the knife away from yourself, but keep the sharp edge towards you. Make sure the clock stays accurate, switch out the gears and batteries the moment it's needed. Give thanks for every meal, to the four Blues and the Grand Line seas.
His religion is something borrowed, cut-and-pasted, maybe even bastardised. But it works, in the quiet mornings and in the chaos of battle and in his hollowed ribcage and his steady hands. He's stolen these mundane moments to love, so naturally, so easily, the way one breathes air and drinks water. He must have been built this way, his mother carved him out of all the devotion she could find from the remains that Judge had left her. And this patchwork faith, he thinks, it might be nothing, it might be something, but whatever it is, it can only be good.
First, he salts a slab of meat. The salt will harden the skin and flavour the flesh, remove the moisture and ready it for the oven. Since he intends it to be used for dinner, he'll have to hide it some place where Luffy can't see. In the oven itself then, overlooked in its obvious-ness. Luffy'll know not to touch his tools anyway. Then he slices the carrots, onions, leeks thin and long, puts them in a broth with condensed chicken essence for a slow boil. Meanwhile, he'll bring out the dried noodles, a set that he'd bought from the last island. Once he's put those into the pot of soup, he'll fry some cutlets of meat, which will surely-
"I. SMELL. MEAT!! Sanji! Good morning!!!"
Sanji'd learnt this early along, if you want to put any sort of meat on any sort of flame, be prepared to be interrupted.
Without turning around: "Good morning, shitty captain. Nothing's ready yet, but I'll have something simple for you in five minutes. 'Till then, you can leave or stay and not make noise." The oil bubbles in his pan, hot and glistening.
"Yessir!"
As the meat browns, he lowers the flame the soup is on to a simmer. With everything else done, he moves to takes out a couple plates and bowls. There's an elegant one with a gold rim for Nami, a colourful one for Chopper, a deep purple one with abstract glass patterns for Robin. A plain one for Zoro, god knows he doesn't give a shit, colourful but plastic ones for Luffy, Franky and Usopp who've never redeemed themselves from a previous incident which involved plates being hurled. One with a porcelain pattern for Brook and one wooden one which Jimbe prefers. He fixes his cutlet onto a plain plate, sets another piece to fry, grabs a fork and turns.
It's 6:35 a.m., he sees from the clock that hangs from the wall. Sunlight melts in through the windows, and-
There's a God sitting at his dining table, hair a glowing halo and skin a shimmering bronze. The morning air thrums.
He sets the plate there, like he's done so many mornings before. He stares at Luffy, golden boy, mouth dry, heart full, like he's done so many mornings before. He's known it then and he's known it now. Sanji can't help it, he is all he is and Luffy is all he is. It's only natural that he loves, loves, loves.
Something in his blood roars loud, brimstone and flame. Sanji sets that plate down, table not unlike an altar, meal not unlike an offering, Luffy not unlike a god, Sanji not unlike a worshipper. At dawn, this is what he knows, this is what he is. Priest, or anything as faithful, home beneath his feet and wind between his fingers. He sets that plate down.
"Your meal, captain."
Luffy stares back. Sanji can see it in his eyes. They're thinking the same sort of things, he's sure of it.
God smiles, wide, bright, gold and glory, Sanji could never look away even if he wanted to. A rubber arm wraps, once, twice around his waist, gentle, and lips stamp his temple, firm. All he can do, all he wants to-- he melts. Yes, this is it. He lifts a hand to curl into Luffy's hair, tilts his face so he can kiss him back in kind. It's easy.
"Good morning, Sanji."
"Yes, good morning."
Sometimes he tries to rationalise it. Luffy loves him for his ability to feed, because Luffy loves food. But he learns and relearns, as he's done with so many things after coming aboard this crew, it's simpler than that. He learns it first on a random starry night, next to a roaring campfire, heat pale next to the warmth he got from the body clinging onto him. He learns it again, for real this time, sailing away from Totoland, hand in his captains hand, both with matching bruises and burns. He learns it every other morning.
Their eyes meet, honey brown and deep sea blue, burning sun and endless oceans, Luffy's eyes crinkle in mirth and Sanji swoons, romantic that he is. Luffy kisses him, sweet.
It's so simple. That's just how you are. Bleeding heart, steadfast devotion, fiery sharp tongue, stove god, knelt figure in worship, adult child. All the same, they twist till Sanji can curl into Luffy's side like a puzzle fitting into place. He's carved this, Luffy's let him, his too long limbs and too sharp elbows and too hot heart settle in this odd embrace. It's theirs. He sighs, then Luffy grabs the fork but doesn't let go of him.
-
("Hey, you smell that?"
"Ah! My meat!")