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All Blue is a coffee shop in the heart of urban Los Angeles, somewhere in the Arts District near The Last Bookstore. It’s one of a kind, serving a very niche audience, the sort with generational wealth, fangs, and a worrisome craving for a decent macchiato because Starbucks just doesn’t have enough hemoglobin in their drinks to cut it. 

Sanji came up with the name, something about being so close to the sea, never mind that East Los Angeles and Santa Monica might as well be night and day. Usopp quipped that they should have named it All Red.

“--because of the blood, you know? Although, I guess it does kind of sound like the murderer from the Chainsaw Massacre is going to be taking your order, huh?” he mused as Sanji blinked at him. Serial killer implications were the least problematic thing about that name.

“Would you get coffee at a place that sounded like a euphemism for the menstrual cycle?” Sanji had demanded, condescending bankers and shitty conditions in the footnotes still spinning his head sideways. In comparison, the name seemed so mundane.

Usopp had laughed, and just like that, despite it all, Sanji felt himself relax, the stress rolling off his hunched shoulders because Usopp just had that effect on people when he wasn’t trying so hard to have that effect. It was a vicious cycle.  

“Honestly, not to kiss your ass, but for your drinks and pastries? You could call it the Garbage Dump, and I’d still make the drive through LA traffic for a bite,” Usopp said, taking a long slurp of his Bloody Mary which Sanji knew was infused with real B-positive blood.

“Does Kaya know that you’re this much of a kissass?” Sanji sighed with fond exasperation and Usopp grinned. 

“Obviously. She tells me every day actually. But on a more serious note, Sanji, you’re a hell of a barista and baker. If anyone can make this work, it’s you.” 

“You’re only saying that because you’re a co-owner and you, Vivi, and I have sold our soul to fucking Wells Fargo.” 

“Alright, just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it like that,” Usopp complained. Then more gently: “I’m serious. It’ll work out.” 

Sanji had nodded, trying not to think of balance sheets, the IRS, and how they’re essentially running a blood-trafficking ring. He poured himself a drink. Usopp clinked his cup to his, and together, they chugged down their glasses. 

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YELP REVIEW: ALL BLUE

coffee shop, bakery

★★★★★ 4.83 (432 Reviews)

JEWELRY B.

Los Angeles, CA

★★★★★ one month ago

Alright, so strap yourselves in for this wild ass ride as I tell you about the gem that is All Blue. If you follow my reviews, you KNOW how picky I am with my food, and so when I walked in to this little place nestled on Spring Street, I didn’t know what to expect. The interior of the restaurant looks like the product of a threesome between a hobbit’s home, a library, and the Vatican, so I figured tryhard hippie coffee or some bougie shit like rose coffee. I’ll be honest, their menu is pretty straight to the point. They have some specialty drinks but damn, when I saw their dessert display case? My jaw dropped. They were gorgeous. I’ve attached the pics to this post. My barista, a long-nose guy (who by the way, unparalleled customer service) told me that the head of their baking team, a woman called Pudding was the mastermind behind most of these, and when I tasted their apple strudel that looked like a swan? I understood why the sky looked like they cut out the roof of the Venetian. Mouthwateringly delicious. Five stars. Would absolutely go again. Would die for a bite. If you know, you know. 

1032 likes 

PEDRO M.

Santa Monica, CA

★★★★★ 13 days ago

Heard that the food was to die for so I made the drive all the way to Downtown LA. I will say that the parking is a little bit difficult, but that’s no fault of the restaurant. Street parking is always a hassle in these areas. I had the opportunity to talk to the one of the three owners, who very kindly walked me through the menu, and made recommendations based on my palate. My mocha was absolutely superb. It’s not the kind of thing you can get anywhere else. And the macaroons were fantastic. 

Despite the food, however, the best part of All Blue isn’t the phenomenal food, or the picturesque interior, or even the high-quality service. It’s the forgetting. Sometimes, when you’re out in the world, you have to act a certain way to fit in, smile with less teeth, blend in with the crowd. At All Blue, it’s not like that. You can let your hair loose, laugh a little more freely, and feel at ease in your own skin. You rarely find a place like this, and solely for this, I’d like to give All Blue five stars, but I would have loved to have given it more. 

722 likes 

SAMANTHA  S.

Hollywood, CA

★★★★★ 2 days ago

this was such a cute place! the food was so good, but is no one going to say anything about how hot everyone was in this place? my barista was this really sweet blue-haired girl who looked like she just got out of a photoshoot. she takes my order, then turns to this long-legged fine sexy blue-eyed blonde, who starts making my coffee and calls out in this deep gravelly voice that had my ovaries pounding to the bakery and he winks and tells me that he’ll make sure my order comes out fresh. i nearly melted onto the floor like for real. by this time i’m already thinking about what to name our babies. then out walks this ripped guy with a killer smile and i guess his nose was on the longer side, but he hands me this bag, which was strange because for some customers, they got them straight out of the display case, but i guess they prepared it especially for me! they really knew how to make me feel special. they are a little understaffed, though, but you really couldn’t tell! their service was almost unnaturally fast but the tldr is that this coffee shop made me feel all kinds of ways.

542 likes

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Los Angeles has never heard of seasons because it’s sunny all year round, and whenever it rains, the topic starts trending locally on Twitter. You’d think it was gold falling from the sky, but no, it’s even better. It’s water. From the clouds. Absolutely insane. 

The problem with it always being summertime is that the amount of clothing everyone wears significantly decreases and the amount of skin visibly increases, and everyone has a Colgate Optic White smile and six-pack abs.

It’s taken about three years for Sanji to get microscopically desensitized and forcefully stop what little blood he had in his body from dripping out of his nose, but then, some bullshit happens when an extremely hot guy or girl walks into All Blue, and Sanji’s mind starts huffing like a dehydrated version of Thomas the Tank Engine. 

Then, they order something like an ice green tea latte, extra hot, with no foam and thirty-seven Splenda packets, or a cookie-crunch frappe (non-human-edition) with extra caramel, one shot mocha, and seven shots of expresso, all upside-down, and Sanji wonders if it’s possible to be attracted to someone and want to put them in an early grave for the second time in their life.

The day that the vampire hunter walks into the vampire-run coffee shop, for vampires, by vampires, is the exact day that Vivi goes all in with the bloodsucker aesthetic, decking the place in plastic bats and icing sugar cookies, Dracula-style, capes included.

“It’s about tradition!” she had chirped.

“Never thought I’d ask this, but is Dracula even historically accurate?” Usopp grumbles, and Sanji just swats him over the head. 

“Does it look like I was changed that long ago?” he says, rubbing his eyes as he moves the set up the coffee machine for the day. “But to answer your question, probably not. But Vivi’s word is law so shut up and pass me the tape.”

”What is this, the 1400s?” Usopp complains. “Are we serfs tilling away at Lady Vivi’s land? What happened to being co-owner?”

“What was that?” Vivi asks, popping up behind Usopp with a chilling smile, and all the color drains from his face.

”Nothing!”

Apparently, for some reason, the vampire-themed knick-knacks are ironic and hilarious which leads to a sudden influx of customers who are all very much not the caricatures that they’ve depicted. He can’t blame Vivi; they are trying to up the revenue but he’s been running around so much he’s starting to lose feeling in his legs, and he kind of needs those.

The only real reason that Sanji notices the hunter in the first place is because Usopp says, “Oh my god,” then immediately spills some lady’s iced mocha like this is a bad sitcom without a laugh track. 

Sanji winces. Accidents happen, but the spill occurred in a high foot traffic area and it’s going to be a pain in the ass to navigate. Might as well toss a banana peel as an extra cherry on top. 

“What—” Usopp doesn’t even spare the mess a glance, staring instead at a customer that walked in. Which, fantastic. This is Los Angeles, after all. They’ve all seen some strange shit because even among vampires there are individuals who make you do a double-take. Sanji’s first customer that made him seriously reconsider waking up in the morning was someone who was wearing a literal leash, followed by a very pretty woman who was holding said leash. He still remembers their orders. A Chai Tea Latte and a mocha without the chocolate. 

A mocha without the chocolate. Might as well tape a tail to a frog and call it a cat.

“I’m—just going to mop this up. Yep, doing that right now.” And just like that, the coward hightails it toward the back.

In Sanji’s ear, he hisses, “Call me if you need backup,” which makes Sanji roll his eyes so far into the back of his head, he nearly sees his brain since he knows that he’ll be screaming for Vivi, not Usopp if something happens. 

Sanji exhales and moves to make the lady a new iced mocha. “Sorry about that, mademoiselle,” he says, pressing the drink into her lovely manicured hand. “And thanks for the wait.” 

“It’s no problem,” she laughs, and Sanji beams at her. 

He moves back to the register, looks up, and thinks, oh fuck partially because the customer is fucking hot with one of the most chiseled bodies he’s ever seen, but mostly because today might be the day that Sanji ends up dead as a doorknob, or cleaning a cadaver off the dining floor. 

The guy reeks of death, the kind that sticks onto you even after spending hours in the shower. Sanji can relate given that his clothes smell decidedly of old milk if he doesn’t add vinegar to the washer. 

It’s not exactly the same, but the sentiment still stands. 

Sanji suddenly remembers that his death might contribute to the smell in the near future, and shakes himself back into reality. Corporate policy is to serve anyone hungry, no exceptions. Sanji knows this rule intimately because he’s the one who came up with it. 

Still, the corporate policy doesn’t mean that he can’t size this guy up, running through a mental checklist of weaknesses in case Sanji has to jump him for attempting to murder one of his regulars in cold blood. Given the cost of the equipment, the monthly payment, and the startup cost all new businesses are forced to go through, they cannot afford for their customer base to grow even smaller. And so as the man peruses the menu, Sanji observes him in turn in what he hopes is not an incredibly creepy one-over worthy of a civil harassment charge.

Depth perception: nonexistent if the scar over his eye is any indication. Instead of close combat, Sanji makes the executive decision to launch a cocktail shaker at his face first then go for ripping out the jugular. Five orders ago, someone had asked for an ice-shaken expresso, which means he’s locked and loaded. 

Intelligence: this man just waltzed into Bloodtopia like nobody’s business though, so Sanji doesn’t have much hope for the hunter on this front. A skilled hunter can take on at most two ferals and the shop is teeming with dozens of very sane vamps with superstrength. That doesn’t mean he’s not battle-smart though. Sanji made that mistake once before with a feral, and he’d broken both arms before managing to knock the feral unconscious with a roundhouse kick to the face.

Weaponry: well, there doesn’t seem to be any firearms or wooden stakes on his person, just—fuck the wooden stake, the guy has a fucking katana strapped to his back like it’s no big deal, and two more at his side, which Sanji missed because he was more concerned over the girth of the man’s biceps. And really, Sanji’s never fought a man with swords, because America’s weapon of choice, hunter or otherwise, happens to be the gun. This means this man could cut him up like kindergarteners cut paper snowflakes if Sanji lets down his guard. 

How no one’s called the police on this public menace boggles Sanji’s mind, because he’s pretty sure you can’t just brandish those in broad daylight all dicks out like that. 

His own eyes flicker to the phone, ready to take one for the team. Viciously, he’s reminded of company policy again, and the tiny rational voice in his brain titters that it's hard to feed a hungry customer when that customer is being detained in the sheriff’s office, which in itself is criminal.

Sanji still has morals here. There’s still life in his eyes, according to the landlord of this property.  

In a stroke of good luck and old-fashioned corporate capitalism conditioning, he recites on autopilot: “Hi, welcome to All Blue. What can I get for you today?”  

“You know none of this is true, right?” The shitty hunter soaks in the tacky decor of the coffee shop with visible distaste. 

“What?” 

“Vamps don’t actually turn into bats,” he huffs, poking at a dangling plastic decoration. “And they sure as hell don’t wear capes, either. They look just like any average person. That’s what makes them so dangerous.” 

“Oh. I had no idea,” lies Sanji, who is most definitely an average person and not a vampire. He shoots the mosshead his best customer service smile, the one that screams sir, this is just an innocent local business with no affiliation to vampires, the Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus. “Can I get you anything?”

Then it hits Sanji like a stack of bricks that this guy has no fucking clue that Sanji or anyone in this restaurant is anything other than human. Which, all things considered, is like Sanji hopping the fence at the zoo and strolling into the lion’s den while banging on pots and pans. 

Silently, he adjusts the checklist scale for intelligence from not much hope to hopeless. 

The man seems to catch himself like he’s realized he’s spoken out loud without meaning to. “Uh, a small black coffee and a matcha muffin?” 

Sanji bites down on his lip to prevent himself from asking, Is that a question, sir? because he does not need to make his life harder than it is. “Sounds good. Anything else?” 

“Nope,” the guy looks at his phone, then back up at Sanji, then back down at his phone. He squints like a nearsighted kid sitting in the back row of a lecture hall, and Sanji has the distinct feeling the man is lost somehow.

He doesn’t ask for directions.

Sanji doesn’t give them to him. 

They stand there in awkward silence, and Sanji tries his best not to let his gaze slip to the man’s pecs, visible through the slit in his top. It’s a rough life Sanji’s living.

He clears his throat, then moves to grab the hunter matcha muffin from the back (the ones fit for human consumption), and a normal cup of black coffee, which is kept separate from their vampire stuff because of cross-contamination. Despite undoubtedly failing some health code guidelines, Sanji’s not going to make a bucket list of failing all of them. 

The man pays with card, setting down his phone to dig through his wallet for a bill, grabs a couple at random, then crams them into the tip jar. He vanishes out of the door like a sexy and armed fever dream. 

No one dies, which Sanji counts as a win. He also gets the hunter’s name by discreetly glancing at his card and violating all sorts of theoretical privacy standards: Roronoa Zoro. 

At the end of the day, Usopp fishes out two of the most crumpled ten-dollar bills they’ve ever seen and says, “Wasn’t his order like…seven dollars?” 

“Time to eat the rich,” Vivi says more solemnly than Sanji’s ever heard her. 

Sanji thinks of the handsome seaweed-haired man with three gold earrings, and swallows, unwanted emotions of something stirring up in his chest like a McFlurry. And god, does Sanji despise McFlurries. Especially McFlurries that can, you know, stake the living shit out of him. Regardless, there's some part of him that thinks it would be a damn shame if Zoro never returned—some bullshit about two ships passing each other in the night.

It’s the same part that told Sanji that running a small business was like riding a bike. He kind of wants to punt it off the Grand Canyon.

Still, it’s not like they’ll be seeing him again, so it doesn’t hurt to hope. 

“Hey,” Usopp calls. “I think he left his phone here?” He waves a sleek black phone case, the lock screen photo a picture of three swords on what looks to be an incredibly stained coffee table with what Sanji assumes are not coffee stains.

He looks longingly at the wall and decides after minutes of careful contemplation, not to bash his head through it. There are some thoughts that Sanji regrets thinking and this is one of them.

#

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The next day, Sanji makes a clear checklist of things that he intends to do if the hunter returns. First, he will not oggle at Roronoa Zoro, even under the circumstance that he is full-on shirtless. Second, well there is no second. That’s the only thing Sanji has to do.

When the marimo doesn’t appear for the lunch rush, Sanji assumes that he isn’t going to show; it’s both a relief and a disappointment. Unfortunately, because the universe holds a vendetta against him, Sanji is rarely right about these things, which is why Roronoa Zoro reappears at around 4:30, as they enter the slower hours of the day.

Sanji immediately fails the first and only item on his checklist the moment the mosshead walks into the shop. 

He’s missing his three katanas, much to Sanji’s relief. Unfortunately, he’s wearing a button-down shirt, black dress pants, and looks like he just walked off the cover of an Abercrombie and Finch catalog, which would induce some medically-concerning heart palpitations if Sanji’s heart didn’t beat once every ten minutes. As it is, it’s now beating once every five.

“Fuck, he’s hotter than yesterday,” Sanji says, horrified he’s voiced that thought out loud, even though it’s objectively true. 

Roronoa Zoro—or for simplicity’s sake, Zoro freezes as he’s walking up to the counter, which means Sanji also freezes, and now both of them are just standing there, unmoving, waiting for the other to crack first. It’s a weird sexually charged version of Blink First and Lose. 

“What?” Zoro finally asks. 

“What?” Sanji parrots back.

“I coulda sworn,” Zoro mutters. “Hey, did you say something earlier?”

“Oh,” Sanji says, lying through his teeth. “Yeah. I said that it’s hotter than yesterday. Heat advisory warning came in on my phone earlier.” 

Zoro blinks at him slowly, a strange look creeping up on his face that makes Sanji feel guilty about his daily gaslighting routine.

“Uh. Hi, welcome to All Blue. What can I get for you.”

Zoro just looks at him, unimpressed, which shouldn’t be happening, because Sanji works in the food industry, and for a lot of customers, service workers, including baristas, are NPCs in a world in which they are the main character. And Zoro is main character material. The green hair is a dead giveaway.

That being said, unimpressed implies that Zoro’s expecting something from him, which is ridiculous unless it’s coffee and pastries. Usually, those kinds of looks are reserved for people of character-important-to-the-storyline status. After a moment, Zoro just says: “My phone.” 

Obviously, he doesn’t say.

He pops open the cash register, which is depressingly empty since most people pay with card nowadays, and grabs the hunter’s sleek extremely outdated iPhone 7. Sanji’s pretty sure that Youtube doesn’t even work on that thing anymore but hey, none of his business unless Zoro gives him his number. 

Mentally, he slaps himself and hops back on script. “Will that be all for today?” 

“I’ll get a small black coffee and a matcha muffin.” 

Sanji hums, punching in his order.“Will do,” He moves to grab a portafilter, and slides over to the espresso machine. “So, uh, what do you do? Like for work?” he asks, because Jesus, the man tipped a twenty on a seven-dollar order yesterday. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he immediately wants to knock himself out on the machine. Sanji knows what Zoro does. 

“Some stuff in finance,” Zoro says instead, and Sanji wishes he had just admitted to being a vampire hunter because finance attracts a certain kind of person and that kind of person is at the top of Sanji’s do not fuck list. All Zoro needs is a Patagonia vest and bam. Instant boner killer. 

Unfortunately, at this current period in time, Sanji wants to do some dumb shit like walk on the beach together and kiss him underneath the sunset. He also wants to do some things that would raise the rating of said re-enacted rom-com to R for Restricted. 

He tightly packs the grounds and locks in the portafilter.  

“What do you do?” Zoro asks, then pauses, letting the question soak in. “Shit—”

“I work in a coffee shop,” Sanji responds in the most deadpan voice he can muster, grabbing a matcha muffin from their display counter, the one he left there just in case Zoro would roll up again. He’s a fucking hypocrite, but he’s a self-aware hypocrite. “As you can see. So, where are the swords today?” 

“Home,” Zoro grunts, as Sanji swipes his fancy rich person credit card. “There was um, a cosplay event yesterday?” 

Sanji immediately takes severe psychological damage, because as far as excuses go, Zoro’s setting new depths for rock bottom. AniCon was three weeks ago. There was a whole horde of Demon Slayer Nezuko cosplayers that wandered in and Sanji couldn’t help but think wow, that was a lot of younger sisters brutally transformed into a ravenous creature with a penchant for human—oh wait. Too close to home.

“What were you cosplaying from?” 

“Um, Vampire…Knight.” 

What. Fuck the business hospitality. There are more pressing issues at hand here. “I don’t think Vampire Knight is what you think it is,” Sanji snorts. “Unless you’re thinking of shoving yourself into a school uniform and dating your step-sister-slash-real sister as her reincarnated ancestor.” 

“What the fuck.”

“Join the club.” Vampire Knight and Twilight single-handedly set the will to live for the general camp population back decades, portraying the very real creatures of the night as glistening pale supernatural beings while simultaneously awakening the dormant monster fucker kink in thousands of young adults. The words I know what you are. Say it…say it out loud… haunt Sanji in his worst nightmares. 

Zoro stays, surprisingly, pulling out a laptop and sliding on a pair of reading glasses. He settles in the booth furthest away from all the others, making himself comfortable. 

Usopp pokes his head into the front of the store, spots Zoro, and zeros in on Sanji with his very knowing eyes. 

“What do you want me to do?” Sanji hisses back, low and under his breath. “Ask the mosshead why he’s decided to settle roots in my shop? Do I need me to remind you how much more short-staffed we would be if I got killed?”

Usopp, that asshole, salutes him for his service and ducks back into the back. 

To be fair, Zoro’s so engrossed in his work that Sanji nearly forgets that he’s there until he turns around and there’s a flash of green just sticking out like a sore thumb. A couple of hours closer to closing, Sanji walks over and raps gently on the table.

“I’d say have a nice day,” he says, not unkindly, but a little flirtatiously. “But I don’t want to jinx it so get out of my store.” 

Zoro shoots him a lopsided grin, and Sanji feels his body lock into place, stunned. “Thanks. It’s the thought that counts.” He moves toward the counter to put more money into the tip jar, and Sanji bats his hand away. 

“What now, ” Zoro huffs, and Sanji wants to say, you are way too handsome for a hunter, that’s what. 

Instead, what he says is: “Keep tipping like that and people are going to think that you’re looking for a sugar baby.” 

“I don’t like sugar and I’m not planning to have a kid anytime soon,” and oh god, Zoro’s stupidity is somehow making him more attractive. Sanji needs to get this checked out by a professional ASAP. 

“You’re an idiot,” he can’t help but snipe before his mind screeches to a halt, and he thinks, wait, can’t say that to a paying customer. 

Zoro takes it in stride. “Sometimes,” he agrees, taking the bag of pastries from Sanji’s hands, then sends one last Cupid’s arrow smirk in his direction before vanishing. 

There’s another ten in the tip jar. Sanji waits for his life-slash-drama to segway to a commercial break. When the only sound that greets him is the typical coffee shop chatter, he just sighs and moves to wipe off the counters. 

#

“What in the Wattpad fanficcery was that? ” Usopp demands while he, Vivi, and Sanji get on closing.

“Shut up, Usopp,” Sanji grumbles from a booth, sorting through their daily expenses. Given that their company started about a year ago, they’re barely above the red, with monthly expenses, equipment, leases, and loan repayments bogging them down. These things take time, he knows, but finances make him want to hurl. 

Even more pressingly, there are supply chain issues getting blood, which has started skyrocketing in price due to the impending inflation. Donations are coming in less and less frequently. They have enough stored for this month, but they might have to start cutting hours next month, or eighty-sixing menu items which’ll put an even larger dent in their business. It’s not just from an entrepreneur's standpoint either; the blood shortage is something being felt across the country.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s their latest film adaptation,” Vivi giggles, wiping down the counters. “It’s called My Lover is The Vampire Hunter I Met at A Coffee Shop.” 

“Hm, bit of a long title.” 

“The producers are workshopping it,” Vivi promises. 

“ Love at First Bite, ” Usopp suggests. “Nah, cheesy and overdone. How about You Had Me At Dracula. No, wait, even better, You Stabbed Me At Dracula. Perfect. A Masterpiece. Tarantino could never.”

“That makes no sense,” Sanji cuts in, basically throwing in the towel over the papers splayed in front of him. “What does that even mean?” 

“Whatever you want it to mean. Don’t lie, Sanji, everyone and their mother saw you staring at his ass,” Usopp teases. Upsettingly, Vivi just nods in agreement. 

“That was—what the fuck, that’s not true.” 

“It’s alright,” Usopp says, rubbing Sanji’s back soothingly, then yelping when Sanji makes a move to pinch his nose. “Sure, he’s a vampire hunter, but you’re a vampire with that legendary vampire strength. You could probably snap him in two if you tried, Edward Cullen.”

“Does Roronoa Zoro resemble Bella Swan to you in any way, shape, or form?” 

“Touche. Though, Bella wasn’t a vampire hunter either. Maybe this is more of a Diabolik Lovers sorta dealio? I don't know. I've never played the game.” 

“Only if you’ve got a harem of other vampire siblings fighting for the shitty mosshead’s love. Which, surprise, there’s no harem, I’m pretty sure we’d all get a sword to the gut for our troubles.”

“Okay, good points,” Usopp says, clearing his throat. “But let’s redirect your attention to the bigger picture: how do you even know what Diabolik Lovers is? Is there something that you want to tell us? Also, why is it always siblings? What's up with that? Incest isn't cool.”  

“What Usopp means to say is just be careful,” Vivi cuts in. Sanji’s willing to bet that’s not what Usopp was trying to say. “You don’t know what kind of hunter he is, if he’s one of those anti-all vamp bastards or if he primarily targets newborns and ferals. And on top of all that, neither of us want to see you getting hurt, emotionally or physically.”

And Sanji knows this. He implicitly knows this, but Zeff’s words stick to him like chewed gum, and he thinks wouldn’t the old man’s sacrifice be in vain if I got myself killed? and that obligation tears him up inside, makes him cautious, and entices him to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Thanks, Vivi,” he says anyway. “It means a lot.” 

And it does. There’s just not much he can do with it.

#

For someone who claims that Los Angeles’s roads are always on the move, Zoro seems to find All Blue pretty damn consistently. And by pretty damn consistently, Sanji means every other day for the next two weeks. 

It’s surprising how unfazed the regulars are now. The marimo still gets some looks from vamps who come in only occasionally, but there’s always someone in the peanut gallery who pulls them aside, fills them in on the situation, gesturing to Sanji and Zoro, and like magic, that’s another person added to the soapbox, eagerly watching the drama unfold before them. 

Sometime later, on either Zoro’s fourth or fifth visit, he reveals that yes, in fact, he was lost the first day that he stumbled into All Blue seeing as he doesn’t know how to use his goddamn GPS.

“This isn’t the Santa Monica Pier, is it?” 

“A pier,” Sanji repeats slowly, not believing his ears even though he swears they were working not five seconds ago. “As in the large slab of wood jutting into the ocean typically accompanied by rides and restaurants.”

“Right.”

No one should be so confident about something so wrong. Sanji has to scan the room to confirm that yes, he is still in his coffee shop, and no, he hasn’t been magically teleported to the Santa Monica Pier. 

Yep, still here. 

“No,” he enunciates, because there genuinely might be a screw knocked loose in the empty cavern that the hunter calls his skull. “This is a coffee shop. Where people drink coffee and buy other miscellaneous pastries. If you look at a thesaurus, you’ll notice that pier and coffee shops are not suggested results nor do they fall under the same category.”

And there goes basic customer service again, out the window, careening toward the west side of the county where Santa Monica pier resides, thirteen miles away.  

The marimo glowers at him, which is intimidating, but also sort of attractive, seconds away from some snippy commentary about talking to Sanji’s manager probably (hunters are the worst), when his phone starts ringing. 

He curses under his breath, then purses his lips unhappily, accepting the call. “Yeah, I know,” he says to the voice on the other line. There are no customers behind him, otherwise, Sanji would tell him to move the fuck away from the register and take his call at a table or a booth. 

He has a sneaking suspicion that Zoro’s been coming in when it's less busy to be less of a burden during rush hour, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. Instead of parsing out those emotions, he eavesdrops on the hunter’s conversation.  “Look, it’s these fucking Los Angeles streets. They just keep moving—Fuck, witch, don’t yell, I get it, I get it. I know I was supposed to meet you at Santa Monica—shut up, I’ll see you and Luffy tomorrow then.” 

“Everything good?” Sanji asks, watching this entire interaction with raised eyebrows. The part about the moving streets is fucking with him right now.

“A co-worker of mine. I was supposed to meet up with the party a couple minutes ago,” the green-haired brute grumbles, and great, there are more people that want to behead Sanji and his entire customer base. The day is looking peachier and peachier.

“And you ended up here?”

“Oops,” Zoro shrugs not so apologetically. Sanji should not be as endeared as he is. “I just moved here. It’s easy to get lost.”

“I’ve seen you for over a month. What do you mean you just moved here?”  

Sometimes their conversations are weirdly innocuous, if not a little charming. “--I think you’re fucking crazy.”

Zoro snorts, leaning on the display case, where Sanji bats him off with a cleaning rag and moves to wipe down any stray heat imprints. “I’m crazy? For saying something true? What, you’re going to tell me that the earth is flat next?” 

“You dumb motherfucker,” Sanji swears, all pretenses of store policy out the window. “You walk into my store with the audacity to tell me you think that Princess Mononoke is Miyazaki’s masterpiece? Over Howl’s Moving Castle?” 

“San’s a badass,” Zoro says as if he hasn’t committed a grave sin worthy of being stoned. “Howl cries because his hair changes color or whatever.” 

“You suck,” Sanji snaps. “Not to mention missed the entire point of Howl’s Moving Castle.” 

“I’m not saying it was terrible. It just wasn’t my kind of film.”

“Of course, you would like the one with literal warfare.”

“Environmentalism, curly. It explores whether or not humans can co-exist with nature.” 

“You’d know, huh, mosshead? So, what do you think?” Sanji asks, stilling, hand still on the cloth. Something wild in him churns. Do you think that humans can ever co-exist with something they don’t understand?

He’s seen Princess Mononoke. Remembers San sucking blood out of the wound of the wolf spirit. How they called her Mononoke, untamed and feral. Princess Monster. “Maybe one day, Princess Mononoke will become human again,” Eboshi had commented, but the story had ended with San leaving Ashitaka, refusing civilization. Refusing humanity. The two, Miyazaki seemed to be implying, could not truly co-exist.

“I don’t know,” Zoro admits. “Maybe more when I was younger, but things change.” 

Sanji mutters under his breath on instinct: “Does it ever drive you crazy? How fast the night changes?” 

“Stop,” Zoro huffs with no true anger behind his words. The edge of his lip is twitching upward. “Don’t do this to me.” 

“Everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” Sanji continues, carrying on with stocking the bakery display without so much as acknowledging Zoro. “Disappearing when you wake up.” 

He stops there, grinning up at Zoro with the most shit-eating smirk that he can summon. “What, you don’t like One Direction?” 

Zoro is staring at him with an unreadable expression, and Sanji struggles to parse out what it is. “Nah,” he says, breaking out of whatever trance he was trapped in. “I’m more of a podcast kind of guy.”

“So you just don’t listen to music?”

Zoro rolls his eye. “I mean, sure, when I’m reading.” 

“And what kind of music is that?” Sanji’s almost afraid to ask. At this point, anything could come out of Zoro’s mouth and Sanji would believe him. He thinks that the streets move like they’re Ents from Lord of the Rings or something. 

“Eight-hour coffee shop ambiance on a rainy day with jazz in the background.”

Sanji considers ejecting him from the store.

As time passes, he manages to finagle Zoro’s tips down to an amount that doesn’t make him feel like he’s a charity case, even though they could use the extra cash as supplies continue to dwindle. 

“I spy, with my little eye, someone in denial,” Usopp does a spin with his pointer finger extended, stopping when it lands on Sanji. “Sanji, how do you feel about winning the prize for the most insane meet- cute-slash-ugly-depending-on-how-this-goes that anyone in All Blue has ever seen?” 

“Die.”

Usopp extends his fangs, then places a hand over his chest. “Already tried it. Can’t say it’s for me.” Sanji tries to hit him with a broom. 

“I mean, I know we’ve sort of jokingly had this conversation with you already, but do you like him? Genuinely, Sanji. If he was just some regular dude minus the worryingly sharp swords, would you ask him out?”

It’s an unfair question because everyone standing in the room already knows the answer. Zoro makes Sanji smile, is the best part of his days, and is genuinely interested in getting to know him. He seems elated when Sanji laughs and asks him questions that no one cared to ask before, about what he likes, his hobbies, pets he wished he had. 

Zoro knows that Sanji’s favorite TV show is the Great British Baking Show. That he likes the warmth and hates the cold, abhors the snow. That he wishes that he had a cat sometimes because he doesn’t spend enough time at home to give a dog the attention it deserves. 

Critically, he still doesn’t know about the vampirism. 

And maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe, Zoro doesn’t care. 

Or maybe Zoro will stop visiting, leaving Sanji with another part of himself wondering, was it me again? What about me is so universally unwanted? He makes a living shaving off vamps that go crazy with bloodlust, after all. And most hunters are hunters because they’ve lost someone and this is the closest thing to revenge they have. In the worst-case scenario, Sanji dies, the cafe gets shut down, and that’s that.

“Probably,” Sanji admits, running a hand through his hair. “But you can’t just remove the swords. They are, unfortunately, a substantial part of his personality and why I’m even dealing with this emotional rollercoaster in the first place.”

“True. On one hand, a thriller that could make Stephanie Meyer shake in her boots.” Usopp nods sagely. “On the other, potential Romeo and Juliet ending, where Juliet rips out Romeo’s throat with his teeth and Romeo fillets him like a McDonald’s Fish Fillet. Which is, you know, less great.”

“Not helping,” Vivi hisses, right as Sanji grumbles, why is he Romeo? “Look, he’s been coming in here for months, and he still hasn’t attempted to run his sword through you. That’s a good thing, right?”

“The bar is so low,” Sanji groans, burying his head into his arms. “The bar is so low that it’s in hell.” 

“Think of it this way,” Usopp hums, no help whatsoever. “He could be a vamp hunter and also a shitty tipper.”

Vivi huffs. “You,” she says, pointing at Usopp. “Shoo. Adieu. Get out of here. And you,” she says, causing Sanji to lift his head. Much gentler, she says: “Think on it, alright? Because he likes you, and sooner or later, you’re going to have to make a decision.” 

One pep talk is a warning. Two means action needs to be taken before something blows up in his face. 

Sanji lets his head thump back on his arm and sighs. 

#

 Zoro’s rifling through the bookshelf near one of the burgundy plush booths. “These yours, barista?” 

“Some of them. Most of the ones on coffee and brewing. Some of them are Vivi or Usopp’s. They’re–have you met them already or am I about to launch into an unnecessary introduction—?”

“Your co-owners, yeah? You may have mentioned them once or twice.” Sanji recalls vaguely mentioning it in passing, a quick Oh yeah, Vivi and Usopp, they started this place with me said that the food here was good but nothing beyond that. 

“Yeah. Or some regulars drop off books.” 

“This one yours?” Zoro pulls out a slim paperback. Sanji glances up, squinting to make out the brown book with cursive. A Beginner’s Guide to Coffee: Beans, Steam, and A Barista’s Dream.

“Yeah, looks right.” 

“What about this one?” A partial face embedded in the white cover. Never Let Me Go . Kazuo Ishiguro. 

“Donated, I think.” By Robin. “Are you going to go through every book trying to figure out whose book is whose?”

“Nah, only yours.” Zoro suddenly chuckles, grabbing out a book from the top shelf, and Sanji hopes to god it isn’t Anne Rice. “Is this one you?” Immediately, Sanji knows exactly what the mosshead’s gotten his grubby paws on.

“No, an old lady’s actually. Unless you’ve got a biting curiosity for some badly written BDSM, which, in that case, it’s now yours. Congrats on being a proud owner of Fifty Shades of Gray. Christian Gray would be proud,” Sanji deadpans as another mobile order chimes in. They’re getting off of Postmates, Sanji thinks. This shit is a nightmare. 

“No thanks,” Zoro snorts. “Hey,” he calls, and the soft shift in tone makes Sanji turn to him again. “Yours, huh?” Not a  question. A simple: I know you,  wrapped up into a single word.

The Little Prince. Antoine de Saint-Exupery. “Yeah,” Sanji confirms, studying the book for a long time. “That’s mine.” 

How many nights when he was younger had Sanji flipped through the pages of the book, laughing at the absurdity of the adults inhabiting the planets, wanting his own rose and fox and adventure? He’d lost his copy when he was eight but had scoured the local bookstore for a copy. Sometime later, he’d forgotten it in between books upon books, having grown up into an adult himself. 

Zoro scans his face. When he leaves for the day, he hands Sanji a napkin with a scribble on it that could be a hat or a snake that just ate an elephant, and Sanji’s heart bubbles like stew on a cold winter night. 

#

Said the fox to the departing little prince: “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” 

#

Robin calls that night. “Hello, Mr. Barista,” she says through the line, and Sanji smiles instinctively. “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

“You calling is always a shining sun on a cloudy day,” Sanji croons, but he knows that there’s never good news and bad news, only bad news and slightly less bad news. “What’s going on?”

“Which do you want first?” she asks him. Robin’s voice belies secretive humor as if she also knows the reality of good and bad news. 

“Give me the bad news, if you don’t mind.”

“The blood shortage is getting worse,” she says, dropping the bomb fast. “I would advise stocking up now, and implementing a reservation system to limit the number of customers unless you want to be sucked dry. The black market put a purchase limitation on pints today.”

Sanji pauses, then closes his eyes. “Blood shortage means ferals.”

“There are worse things than ferals.” 

Robin isn’t talking about hunters. She’s not talking about newborns either—but rather referring to a different kind of vampire, perfectly sane and sociopathic, the sort that enjoys using excuses like starvation to do heinous things.

Sanji remembers the blood trickling down his throat. The bite into his own neck, and the crimson splatters on the snow. 

The vampire that had changed him had been kind enough to drop him off at Zeff’s. Not everyone is as lucky. He’s heard stories about newborn children unleashed on crowded streets as a form of amusement, and is smart enough to know they aren’t just stories. 

What does it take, Sanji wonders, for someone to forget that they were human once too?

“What’s the good news?”

“I’m able to siphon a supply for you for a bit. I have a couple of ins at a blood bank, but when the price flies up, I can keep you and your employees personally stocked, but not the cafe.”

“Robin,” he mutters. “You know my policy. No one goes hungry.”

“And let’s pray it doesn’t come to that, but we have to prepare for the worst and hope for the best, isn’t that right, dear Barista?” A beat. “I hear that a hunter is wooing you.”

“I sincerely doubt what he’s doing could be considered ‘wooing’.”

“And yet you’re charmed by Roronoa Zoro.”

Sanji straightens, even though there’s no possible way for Robin to see him. “You know him?” 

“I do,” Robin says, secrets upon secrets piling up on the tip of her tongue, never spilling past her lips. “He has quite the reputation.”

“Really?” Sanji mentally flips through his catalog of particularly nasty hunters and comes up empty. “I haven’t heard of him before.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been back to the East Coast, Sanji,” Robin hums, voice melodic and indecipherable. She’s always been beautifully mysterious like that. “But as far as hunters go, there are far worst ones out there, in my humble opinion. But I am curious. What’s he like?”

He has no fucking taste—orders black coffee only. He’s more of a dog person than a cat person, but whatever. And he always asks me these inane questions about my life. Just yesterday, he asked if I preferred rosemary or thyme. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Why do I have to prefer one when I can have both? You’d like him. He’s kind. To me. Right now, at least, and I hate taking risks, I really do but there are too many things I’ll regret when I’m on my deathbed, and I don’t want this to be another. 

“He’s uh, he’s something. I was planning on asking if he wanted to go on a date tomorrow,” Sanji admits instead. “As a human barista, of course. Robin, you’ve never met him. He’s as thick as a log. If it doesn’t go well, then fantastic, we go our separate ways.”

“And if it goes well? Will you tell him eventually?”

Sanji’s had time to consider this. In the event that everything he’s ever wanted falls in his lap, would he ever tell Zoro anything, knowing that a couple of words could damn him forever? Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s not the only one keeping secrets. “You know, he hasn’t told me he’s a hunter yet. ”

And when he does, Sanji’ll consider doing the same. 

It’s fairer that way, he thinks. No secrets or only secrets. And if they come to the point where both of them are baring their throats in vulnerability, then maybe they can overcome something as ominous as this. 

Robin hums. “Quid pro quo, hm?”

“Something like that.”

“How terribly romantic.” He can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. “He’s quite honorable, Sanji. I wish nothing but the best for you.” 

That, he knows at least, is completely sincere.  

#

“Do you have plans for this evening?” Zoro asks, his eyes on Sanji who is skillfully drawing a swan on a latte. He steps around the counter to hand it to a small girl with pigtails who beams at him in delight. “The wing is crooked, by the way.”

“Fuck off. I’m on the closing shift, so probably that, then making dinner and collapsing on my bed trying to shove my soul back into my body.” 

Zoro smiles, a barely noticeable thing, but these days, Sanji spends a lot of his time on the clock paying close attention to Zoro. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Sanji says, soldiering forward. “But plans can change. It depends on the circumstances.”

“Really? Didn’t take you to be so open to changing your routine. You seem like the kind of person who follows their schedule down to the minute.”

Sanji punches in another order from a customer and leans down to grab a chocolate and peanut-blooder cookie from the display case, only half-listening to Zoro as the shop murmurs around him. “I’ll have you know that I’m damn flexible,” he says idly, flapping a lackadaisical hand in Zoro’s direction. 

He wrenches his head up at the strange hck then violent coughing fit that seems to be coming from Zoro’s direction, grabbing a small plastic cup and filling it from the cooler beside him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Spit–” Zoro’s face is bright red. Sanji thinks he might be able to fry an egg on it. “Fuck—shit. Swallowed—” A series of coughs. “Swallowed wrong.” 

“Here. Drink this,” he says, sliding over the cup. “Can’t have you dying in my store. I might get sued by your Wall Street-looking ass.” 

“Wall Street is in New York,” Zoro mutters into his water. “And I wouldn’t sue you.”

“Put that down in writing, and maybe I’ll believe you,” Sanji says. 

He’s not expecting Zoro to grab one of their brown napkins and a pen from the cupholder, scribble something down, and cap the pen with a solid click. He crumbles the napkin into a wad, then throws it at Sanji’s head. “There. Take that to court.”

With raised eyebrows, Sanji plucks the ball off the counter and smoothes it out. Scribbled on the brown recycled environmentally-friendly paper: Got time to squeeze a trip to Griffith into your plans tonight?

Sanji blinks, the words swimming off the page. Part of him is impressed by how smooth that was, and the other part is more peeved that Zoro beat him to the punch. The mosshead stands to the side, face impassive, but able to hide the subtle shifting on his feet. 

“Did I take your order yet?” Sanji asks, ruining the moment because he is, after all, simply another cog on the machine and there are unfortunately customers lining up. 

“Oh. Um. No.” A small ball of guilt bursts behind Sanji’s sternum when Zoro’s face falls, but he moves to make the coffee and snag the muffin, bagging it up on autopilot. 

“That’ll be $7.46 please.” 

Zoro nods, disappointment mostly wiped away, but stray traces remain in the tightness of the jaw. He pulls out his card, which Sanji hands straight back to him. “Looks like you have insufficient funds.” 

“You fucking liar .” Zoro’s more confused and amused than pissed, much to Sanji’s relief.

“I have a business to run here, mosshead. Profit-loss margin and all that. Do you have an alternative form of payment?” 

Zoro rolls his eye, because Sanji’s just spewing bullshit, but moves to pull out some cash. Sanji makes a sympathetic noise from the back of his throat. 

“We just adopted a cashless payment policy about one-point-eight seconds ago. Sorry for the inconvenience or whatever.” 

The marimo’s brow furrows. “Are you denying me service?” 

That is one-hundred percent not what Sanji’s trying to do. “Here,” he says, trying to conceal his exasperation. He drops the coffee and muffin into Zoro’s hands. “On the house, provided you drive and leave behind your phone number on—” he punches a button on the register and blank receipt paper spits out of the dispenser. “---the back of this receipt.” 

And now the idiot gets it.  

“What the hell kind of buildup was that?” Zoro complains but takes the pen that Sanji offers him and scrawls his name and number down on a blank sheet of receipt paper. Behind him, Sanji swears that he sees money trading hands and vows to add salt to their coffees next time they order, making a cafe hitlist.

“I get off at six,” he says before Zoro can ask, and Zoro’s grin is lopsided and oh so lovely.

“Perfect,” he says. “See you then.” 

#

“What the fuck was I thinking?” Sanji snaps, losing his mind at 5:40. “I should have lied and told him seven. I’m literally in my spare work clothes right now.”

“I mean, it is the same as the clothes that he asked you out in,” Usopp notes. “Could be sentimental.” 

“But then he would have to wear the barista apron too,” Vivi muses. “You look good, Sanji. A mix between casual and spiffy.” He has no idea what Vivi’s talking about. He’s in jeans and a black shirt. 

“What if he drives away with me in his car and murders me in a parking lot?” Sanji asks, more seriously.

“He wouldn’t do that.” Usopp waves him off, then stops. “Alright, the likelihood that he’s going to do that is higher than the average guy, but besides the first day, he’s been relatively unarmed.” 

“Maybe you should share your location with us,” Vivi agrees. “And also, fun fact of the day. If you press and hold the power and volume button, you can make an SOS call. Completely unrelated.” 

“Great. Fantastic. Thank you both.” 

“Just saying that the chances are greater than zero,” Usopp tacks on. “But that’s true for anyone, right? Besides, just donkey-kick him if he pisses you off. Or you could uh, bite him and blow your cover, but hey what works works.” 

“Capoeira and donkey kicking are two very different things.” Sanji has to breathe slowly through his nose. “One is a martial arts practice. The other is something an animal does.” 

“Isn’t man, at his core, just an animal?” Vivi ponders, and Sanji groans. 

Zoro is waiting for him outside when Sanji exits, five minutes later, all five spent wondering if he smells like milk or coffee. “You look good,” he says, the cheekbones of his face red, but otherwise impassive. 

“Thanks. That’s—nice of you,” Sanji says, a little harried. “Do I still smell like a coffee shop?”

Zoro shrugs. “You mean like coffee? Sure, I guess. I like it though.” 

Vampirism comes with wonderful benefits that you can’t get from company 401Ks or network healthcare providers, such as having so little blood in your body that you can’t blush. As such, Sanji’s mentally screaming, but outwardly mastering his poker face. 

Trade-offs. 

Zoro’s car is a sleek black Cadillac Escalade, the kind that would probably cost extra to get the interior cleaned, that they’d charge a pretty penny to wipe off the blood from. “Nice ride.” 

“Thanks.” There’s a trace of a smile on Zoro’s lips. “One of my friends helped me pick it out. Luffy. Said that the car was calling to him or whatever.” 

Sanji makes a noise of agreement, drinking into the sight of Zoro, content. Whoever Luffy is, he’s clearly important to Zoro, and Sanji thinks that maybe he’d like to meet him if the chances weren’t so likely he was in the vampire slaying business too. 

Then again, he’s the one about to willingly entrap himself with a vampire slayer in what is essentially a steel sardine can with wheels, so practicality is already dead and buried, six feet under.

Sanji assumed that getting into a car with Zoro would entail a hell of a lot more backseat driving, but the marimo seems to know where he’s going for the most part. It’s a little suspicious seeing that Sanji’s pretty sure that he doesn’t know his left from his right, but as long as they don’t hightail it into San Bernardino Forrest and mysteriously disappear, there’s a lot that Sanji’s willing to let slide. 

“If I turned on your radio right now,” Sanji says, eyeballing it like a cat might eyeball a spray bottle. “What would I hear.”

“Probably the news,” Zoro says honestly, and sure enough, the monotone narration of another political scandal reads from the speakers. 

Sanji’s going on a date with someone who has the body of Adonis and the energy of a weary college professor. 

It’s easy to fill in the silence though, in part because the bickering comes so easily. They talk about Hell’s Kitchen versus Kitchen Nightmares. Sanji rehashes the shittiest summary of West Side Story to Zoro who nods along, then makes a noise of distaste at the back of his throat when he hears what happens to Tony. “What the fuck.” 

“And then they carry his body out together because the life lesson is that murder is the best way to end a feud. Voila. You’re now an expert in West Side Story.” 

“Did you say they’re teenagers?”

“High schoolers. I think. Yeah, I’m pretty certain they’re high schoolers. They dance in a gym and everything.” 

It turns out that while Sanji’s an expert in the realm of hopeless romanticism, Zoro is an expert in the arena of literally any sort of media with a sword, which include, but are not limited to: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, and the Disney version of The Sword in the Stone.

Fictional stories give way to real stories. The sun sets and the moon rises. Zoro tells him tales of a childhood friend, a dojo, and a promise to carry out a dream, though he doesn’t say what it is. Sanji tells him about the first time Zeff taught him to chop a vegetable, and how he’d nearly taken out his own fingers. 

Time races past them, and before he knows it, Zoro is parking his car. “Get out,” he jokes, and Sanji says, “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” and life is good. 

Griffith Observatory at night is beautiful. There’s no other way to put it. Unlike the movies, however, the place is teeming with tourists, but on a weekday night, the place feels more open than it usually does. Sanji peers out at the view of the Los Angeles Skyline, the tips of the skyscrapers smoky with air pollution, but the light still shining through, cutting through the night like a scalpel. 

It never fails to take his breath away every time. “You’ve never been here?” he asks, finally tearing his eyes off the view. 

“Nope. First time.” 

Sanji grins and drags him into the line for the outdoor telescope pointed at the moon. She’s gorgeous tonight, he thinks. Full and luminous. When he was younger, it was the sun that he’d liked the best, the feeling of the rays hitting his skin, soaking into the fiber of his being, but now he understands that the sun runs endlessly hot, an untouchable star that is burning out. The moon is simply a rock, pulled into orbit, reflecting the glory of its flaming counterpart. Cold. You can swallow the moon far more easily than you can swallow the sun. It’s far more attainable. It’s safer. 

Shoot for the moon. You can land on it. No one ever says shoot for the sun. 

They make their way into the observatory, reading the plaques. At some point, Sanji’s hand finds Zoro’s and he laces their fingers together, a gesture that Zoro follows without so much as making eye contact with him.

Zoro, unfortunately, finds out that Sanji’s a bit of a dork when it comes to astronomy. “It’s not actually that surprising,” he says. "You seem like a nerd." He quickly steps out of the way when Sanji tries to tread on his foot. And despite all that, Zoro asks questions, and lets Sanji talk about red giants and white dwarfs and this and that. 

“Oi, don’t hesitate to tell me to shut up if you start getting tired of my voice.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Zoro says flatly. “Keep going. I’m not tired of it yet.” 

Zoro never tells him to stop and Sanji’s certain that he would if he did find the information overload grating, so he keeps on adding little bits of trivia here and there, things that he’s read. Stories about space rovers singing to themselves in the dark. The sound that dark holes make. Myths about gods and scorpions and the hunter running from them. 

All his life, Sanji’s had to pretend to be someone. As a child, he had to pretend to be strong when he wasn’t. As he grew older, he had to pretend to be human when he stopped being that long ago. As a barista, he pretends to be patient and kind when all he wanted to do was punt a customer into the landfill. There are only so many masks that you can put on before you forget what is and what isn’t a facade anymore. 

With Zoro, it’s easy to just be the closest to Sanji he’s been in a long time. 

They explore the planetarium, hands still interlocked.

A movie’s playing in the theatre. “Disappointed that we’re not tap dancing off the floor?” Zoro teases, and Sanji’s more surprised that Zoro knows the La-La Land reference to begin with.

“Depends how good you are at dancing,” he whispers back. 

“I’m fucking terrible.” 

“You’re also a shit liar.” 

They stumble out of the auditorium, which was getting rather stuffy. “Outside?” Sanji suggests.

“Lead the way, curly.”  

Outside the second floor, while Zoro fiddles with a telescope,  Sanji nudges him with his shoulder. “So, why Griffith?”

“Figured I might as well check another tourist spot off my list.” Zoro inserts two quarters into the telescope and points it downtown. “Hey, what’s that building?” 

Sanji looks into the lens. “City hall. I think you can go up to the top. Or at least you used to—and don’t think you can get out of the question, algae-for-brains.” 

“I like stars,” Zoro responds unconvincingly, swiveling the telescope in a different direction. 

“Don’t get coy with me,” Sanji grumbles. “You think stars are okay.” He puts extra emphasis on the last word. “I want to go somewhere you’d like.”

Zoro fixes him with a look. “I do like it here. View’s nice, air’s fresh, you’re here. Could use some more stuff on planets though.”

“What do planets have to do with—”

Planet. Planetarium. It hits him like the asteroid that fucked up the dinosaurs. “You’re shitting me. You’re fucking shitting me.” Zoro turns to him with one eyebrow raised. “Did you choose Griffith because of the Little Prince?” 

The Little Prince who traveled to all the different fake planets, whose loneliness had spoken to Sanji, who kickstarted his love for the skies. The force of it all slams into him like a battering ram and Sanji doesn’t know what to do with it, not when it’s being presented to him like this. His defenses are splintering beneath the weight of this small act of care. 

Zoro’s expression is unreadable, but eventually, he sighs helplessly, turning to the skyline. “Something like that.” 

For the first time in seventeen years, Sanji thinks he can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears. On autopilot, he makes his way over to Zoro, a man in a trance. 

Carefully, with his teeth sheathed, and free hand cupping Zoro’s face, Sanji kisses him, soft, sweet, and everything in between. 

#

Zoro drives him back to the shop because Sanji works seven days a week and takes minimal vacation days because again, labor shortage. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off at your place?” 

Sanji shoots him a wry smile. “I don’t give out my address on the first date.”

“That’s fair. How do you feel about a second date?” 

A burst of unfamiliar giddiness thunders up his stomach to his chest then plants itself on his lips in a splitting grin. “Sure. I’d like that.” 

“See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be behind the counter as usual. Can’t miss me, even if you only have one eye.” 

Zoro snorts, and steps in, placing one last lingering kiss on his lips. “Think you’re funny, do you?”

“Hilarious,” Sanji mutters against his mouth. “You think I should go into standup?” 

“Don’t you have to be funny for that?” Zoro just laughs when Sanji knocks their foreheads together with a little more force than necessary. 

After what feels like seconds, Zoro pulls away. “Alright,” he says, voice as soft as the orange hue of the sodium vapor lights that glow above the street. “Tomorrow.”

Sanji closes his eyes as the car drives off into the night, Zoro’s crooked smile imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Dogs bark in the distance and cars rush by, and yet, the traces of Zoro’s chuckle remain weaving in and out of his ears. 

He calls an Uber, looking forward to another day, for the moon to set and the sun to rise. 

#

Somewhere along the lines, Sanji forgot how the story of the Little Prince ended. 

Somewhere along the lines, he forgot how West Side Story ended too. 

Chapter Text

Hey, had fun today. Did you get home safe?

Yeah. Thanks for the ride. What about you?

Not yet lol. Got some things that I need to take care of tonight.

Damn, right after a date huh? Someone moves quickly.

That jealousy I hear? Relax, curly, it’s just some overtime. Duty calls. 

Uh-huh…well, have fun on the night shift, marimo…doing whatever the fuck you do I guess.

Not exactly fun, but I’ll see you tomorrow?

I’ll be here. See you. 

#

“I’m guessing that the date went well?” Vivi asks the next morning, and Pudding perks up from where she’s loading some apple turnovers into the over. 

“Do you even have to ask?” Usopp ducks under Pudding’s outstretched tray, which is not proper kitchen protocol, and moves to whip up a couple of hot chocolates for a group of humans who’ve found their way into the store. “The man is walking on Cloud Nine.” 

“It was…fine,” Sanji says just to spite Usopp as he shakes the hell out of an iced green tea. “We went to Griffith. He dropped me back at the coffee shop—”

“Vivi,” Usopp cuts in sternly. “Did you desanitize the tables and the countertop this morning?”

“I did it last night,” Vivi groans pitifully. “How was I supposed to know that Sanji and his date were going to be coming back here?”

“Did you think we—” he hands the group their drinks. They can’t be much older than thirteen, and absolutely should not exposed to accusations of Sanji fucking someone in the coffee shop. “---Usopp, I am going to ram my foot up your ass.”

“And we wouldn’t even know if you committed an HR violation,” Usopp says, ignoring him. “Since you’re basically the entire HR department.” 

“For your information, we didn’t, and I hate it here,” Sanji says dully, reminding himself that they do have to hire an actual person for HR sometime in the future. “I genuinely hate it here.”

“That’s I love you in Sanji,” Usopp fibs to a scandalized older woman who most likely thinks that young people should do service work and love it because it builds character. 

“Sanji!” Pudding calls from the bakery in the back, and he shoots Usopp a dirty look as he makes his way to her. “Sanji!”

“Pudding?” Pudding’s crew of bakers are chatting amongst each other, a nervous undercurrent shooting through the air like static electricity. There’s no shock yet, but all it takes is one touch for the energy to snap. “What’s going on?”

She pulls him aside. “I don’t want to be that person, but it’s about inventory. I know that blood is hard to come by these days, but do you know what our supply looks like for the rest of the month? It’s uh, not looking too good, even by the end of this week.” 

Shit. He was certain that there was enough parsed out for the month, but he trusts Pudding’s assessment almost more than he trusts his own, and if she says they’re running low, then they’re running low. 

“I’ll give Robin a call tonight,” he promises. His thoughts fly to his personal stash at home. Yes, technically it’s supposed to last him the next two months, but it’ll buy the restaurant at least till the end of this week. He knows that Robin's warned him against doing this exact thing, but hopefully, blood will return to its normal supply and prices in the next month, and he won’t have to worry about making stupid decisions. 

“Is he coming in today?” Pudding asks, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “You know, your hunter.”

“He’s not my anything,” Sanji hisses. “But he said he would, so yes. Most likely.” 

“Whipped as cream!” Pudding sings, popping the p in ‘whipped’. She's looking way too excited about a relationship that doesn't involve her. “Alright, Sanji. Get back out there and keep staring at the door! The pining look is very cute. Our Yelp reviews are definitely riding the high of the All Blue exclusive love story going on, complete with coffee and desserts!” 

“Our Yelp reviews are what—?”

Pudding all but kicks him out of the back, where he nearly runs straight into Usopp who is holding two extra hot chai lattes, and yelps as he moonwalks out of the way. 

Lunch hour comes and goes. Sanji continuously glances at the door every time the little bell over the entrance jingles. Zoro doesn’t show, but Sanji’s not worried, since he never appears when it’s busy. 

There’s a lull between three to five. 

Zoro still doesn’t appear. 

“Is he coming in today?” Usopp asks. “Didn’t you think your date went well?”

“I thought it went well,” Sanji responds, accidentally putting way too much whipped cream on top of a mocha. “Fuck.” 

“I think that’s more sugar than coffee at this point,” Usopp says awkwardly, sticking a finger straight into the mounds of cream that have toppled out of the cup onto the countertop. “Maybe he’s just busy?” 

“Maybe,” Sanji says. Well is a subjective word but he thought that something must have clicked if they agreed to see each other today. What made Zoro change his mind? Was it him?

Maybe it was because Sanji exposed himself as a walking star encyclopedia and Zoro was one of those bastards on the deep sea side of the debate on whether scientists should be exploring the sea or space. That tends to touch a nerve with a lot of people. Maybe it was the fact that Sanji was unnecessarily snarky, but it had been a mutual banter, so that couldn’t be it. Or could it?

He doesn’t know anymore. He thought that he finally knew where he stood with Zoro, well at least, where Sanji the Barista stood with Zoro, but apparently not. 

Something terrible skitters up his insides with dark spidery legs, and sinks its poison into his heart. Panic. Dread. Worry. 

Heartache. After a single date. What the hell, he’s better than this. It’s just a date. 

After three months of buildup, his mind unhelpfully adds. He really managed to string you along, huh?

He runs his tongue over his retracted canines. “Maybe the stock market ate him up.”

“Like the Big Bad Wolf? Is he supposed to be Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Who knows.” He shakes on some chocolate sprinkles a little too violently, and the head of the shaker is dunked straight into the mocha-whip-cream Frankenstein concoction. It sprays sugar and coffee and cream all over the front of Sanji’s apron. 

“Woah,” Usopp says. He pries the shaker from Sanji’s hands with care, like Sanji’s going to challenge the busted mocha cup to a fistfight. “Let me take care of this. You wanna go into the freezer in the back and scream? It’s great. And it’s soundproof so no one can hear you.”

Sanji stares at him. “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes.”  

Usopp’s right. Screaming into the void that is a metal container is fucking fantastic. He and the chilled coolers of type A positive blood are about to be fast friends, he can tell. 

“Feeling better?” Usopp, who is an absolute god among men, has singlehandedly made what looks like an entire countertop of drinks and is systematically handing them out to their respective owners with the efficiency of an overcompensating accounting intern.

“Sort of.” He can’t help but worry, the sensation of something terrible sluggishly dragging itself under his skin. 

Thirty minutes till closing.

Ten minutes. 

Five.

Zoro doesn’t show. 

#

Zoro doesn’t show up the next day either. 

#

Or the day after that. 

#

For the first time, Sanji utilizes the number scrawled on the paper receipt that he’s hidden away in his wallet, and shoots the mosshead a text: Hey, just wanted to check in to see if everything was alright. Haven’t seen you in a while. This is Sanji from the cafe by the way. 

The message goes through, which means that the very least, he isn’t blocked, but another day goes by, then another, and no response. 

Sanji’s heart splinters, leaving behind something chipped and fragile. Well, it’s on him for bringing his own hopes up. He can hear Zeff’s voice now, What are we? Old ladies sipping tea pining over lost flames? C’mon, you’re burning daylight, brat. 

All this time, he’d been worried about being physically wounded, that he didn’t consider that there were other ways to hurt and be hurt.

Live and learn.

#

Sanji realized long ago that keeping busy is its own form of painkiller, up there with Advil, and so he makes coffee, helps Pudding brainstorm desserts, and tosses himself in the hellscape that is financial documents. 

He’s doing a pretty damn good job not feeling. It was, after all, just a single date. There’s no reason to get all caught up about it. 

Three days later, the whole thing comes crashing down on him like a skyscraper demolition. 

“Are you alright?” Usopp asks with concern which is touching but also unnecessary. "You've had this weird blank robot stare in your eyes for like, days."

Sanji’s perfectly fine. After a couple of days, he’ll be back to normal, Sanji who smiles at ladies, old grannies, and children. Sanji who wears a tired but gruff attitude. He just needs to get over this hump in the road and Zoro—the hunter will be nothing more than a distant memory, reduced to a single line in Sanji’s autobiography when he’s rich, famous, and a hermit who never falls in love again. 

“Never felt better,” Sanji says, making another extra hot latte. There's no feeling in his fingertips because frying your nerve endings is a side effect of making extra hot drinks, and this is Sanji's seventh.  

In other words, he’s actually never felt worse, but hey, he’s pumping out those drinks like no one’s business so from a business perspective, he’s thriving. Maybe he should give himself employee of the month. Is that nepostism? Probably. 

Between the pangs in his chest, the woozy headaches, and the dryness at the back of his throat, it’s a wonder that Sanji is performing as well as he is. 

To be fair, it’s been three days since he’s last had any sort of blood, having slipped large portions of his own stash into the cafe supply to make up for their inventory loss, because it's gone from concerning to alarming. 

“I’ll have to halve the supply I’m sending your way,” Robin had said, the unsaid apology all but crackling from the phone speakers. “It’s not looking so good. I’ve been asking economists to forecast the trends for blood, and no one knows what to expect.”

“Economists being confused? That sounds about right,” Sanji had responded, partially out of bitterness, partially because he now has trust issues toward anyone in econ and finance. So, there’s Zoro to thank for that as well. “I appreciate it anyway, Robin.” 

“Sanji,” Robin warns. “Be careful out there.” 

"Alright, but if you want to talk about it," Usopp trails off, like this is MadLibs and Sanji's supposed to fill in the blanks.

"Do you want to hear me mope about the same guy I've been moping about for the past week?" Sanji asks, raising an eyebrow. Look, just because he's sad doesn't mean he's not self-aware. And he knows just the method to fend off Usopp. "Funny you should mention it. Last night, I had a hell of a dream featuring a very sexy hunter wearing a maid--" 

"And nope! That's enough for me," Usopp splutters. He points to Sanji. "You may have won the battle, but don't think you've won the war."

Unfortunately, that's true on some level. Usopp’s the kind of guy who’ll know not to press, but won’t completely drop an issue, even if all related parties of said issue very much would like for it to be forgotten. He's like if the elephant in the room were a person. You know that he knows that you know that you both should be sitting down and having a heart-to-heart that ends up with you reconsidering everything in your life, but no one wants that. So instead, Usopp just stares sadly at your back as if he were a kicked puppy, and guilts you into talking to him. 

It’s a useful skill that he has, up there with lying out of his ass, when it’s not being directed at Sanji. 

It’s usually directed at Sanji.   

Overall, he does a great job at ignoring the looks his friend sends his way. Unfortunately, he forgot that Usopp and Vivi make a vicious tag team, and that he should have fully expected for Usopp to be the distraction and for Vivi to actually enforce the intervention. He’s dizzy and tired. Sue him. As they close up shop for the day, Vivi locks the entrance all in with a click, standing guard over the door like a menacing security guard. 

“This is an intervention,” she says, and yeah, Sanji kind of figured. Usopp wheels out the only rolling office chair that came with the place, shoved in the depths of the supply closet, never to be touched until now, apparently.

“Take a seat,” Usopp says, getting way too into character for this. Sanji fixes him with a nasty glower. “It’s come to our attention—”

“Have you been feeding?” Vivi cuts in, as Usopp protests What the hell! I thought we were going to break it to him slowly! 

“I’m still lucid,” Sanji argues, blinking rapidly. It feels like there’s no moisture in his eyes, sucked dry by the California sun. Meanwhile, Vivi vanishes into the kitchen and comes back with a blood-black tea infusion that she all but shoves into his hands. He staggers back a bit under her push. Okay, she's either been working out or he's more messed up than he realized.

“Your eyes are black,” Usopp points out. “Completely, I mean. Not a great sign you can’t hide them anymore. I can’t believe I’m going to be channeling my inner disapproving dad energy here, but Sanji, do you really think some hunter is worth all this trouble?”

He’s clearly waiting for Sanji to say something along the lines of But Father, I love him!

Sanji’s going through it but not going through it enough to refer to Usopp as his Father. That's an all-time low, even for him, and Sanji has done all sorts of shit that most people would consider an all-time low like handing his heart to people then getting ghosted. 

Tragically, he and Usopp might not be on the same page about the whole Father thing since the pseudo-therapist looks extremely taken aback when Sanji sighs, sets his untouched mug in his hand on a booth, and sinks down on the chair instead of kicking up a fuss.

“Uh, oh, yeah, um, cool! We’re going to talk this out. So, uh, again, is a hunter really worth hunger striking for?” He shoots awkward finger guns in Sanji’s direction, and now Sanji is wishing he genuinely shot him because Usopp’s finger guns usually mean that they're both extremely out of their depth and this conversation is going to end up with one of them in tears. 

“Okay, it’s not a hunger strike, it’s the goddamned supply chain, and two, I know it isn’t worth it.” Usopp’s earlier questions ricochet around in his mind. 

It isn’t worth it, but he had hoped that it would have been. That he’d found something besides work, besides his friends, something else worth taking a leap of faith for. Instead, that hope crumpled like a castle under mortar fire. 

He fishes for a cigarette, stopping once he remembers that he quit, tossed them out a while back.

It hasn’t killed the instinct of reaching for a pack when he’s itching for a distraction. How easy is it to kill a habit? How easy is it to kill your nature? 

It could have been something, he thinks despite his rationale. It could have been love. Maybe it already was. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does if it’s making you feel sad,” Vivi asserts.

Vivi’s always been the most gentle out of the three of them. Sanji is only gentle when he doesn’t realize it and Usopp’s kindness used to be rooted in a deep desire to be accepted. There are moments where the lines still blur, but for the most part, they stay deeply rooted in their assigned roles. It is just who they are. 

Sanji shakes his head and huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “No, I gave myself expectations. That’s just what happens, I guess.” 

“But he made you happy.”

“Yes.” This, Sanji can admit without hesitation, the moon through the telescope burned forever in his memory, the feeling of the calluses of Zoro’s hand pressed against his still vivid in his dreams. 

He’d been happy then. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Just give me some time, and I’ll get through it. Don’t worry,” he says, with a wane smile, turning to each of them. “I’ve got this.” 

Vivi frowns, extending out a hand to pat his back.

As her hand makes contact, an ominous thump echoes from the back door and spills into the coffee shop. 

Then a strange cackle, high and terrible, worms its way into the marrow of Sanji’s bones, where it sits, swollen with fear. 

“What is that?” Vivi whispers, horror sliding onto her face. “Is that—” 

“If it was a feral it would be screaming or whistling.” Usopp’s eyes dart back and forth nervously. “Which means—”

“It’s a newborn.” 

What else was it that Robin had said? Be careful out there. Someone’s dunked Sanji into an ice bath so deep that there’s no way to get to the surface. 

Back in the day, Zeff used to tell him in his raspy, cigarette-rough voice about how brutal some vampire hunters were, and how some vamps started to hunt the hunter. “Used to count how many they could kill in a week,” Zeff muttered. “The ones who lived, turned, then were killed by their friends. Nothing behind it besides revenge and a desire to hurt.” 

The domino blocks begin to fall, toppling one by one. 

The blood shortage.

The hunger.

Zoro disappearing. 

It’s a fucked up ecosystem. No blood means more starving ferals. More ferals mean more vampire hunters, and more hunters mean more deaths, vampire or otherwise. 

It means more turnings.

Another cackle, ripped out of the chest of the newborn who isn’t Zoro because Zoro can hold his own if it came down to it; Sanji would never date someone who couldn’t. 

But this is the same Zoro who casually entered this coffee shop every day, who didn’t so much as touch his swords when surrounded by dozens of sharp-toothed patrons. Who bantered with a vampire for months. Who took said vampire on a date to the Griffith Observatory, all because he knew Sanji liked the stars. 

That dark ugly feeling gnaws at Sanji’s insides and rakes its claws down his stomach like nails against a chalkboard.

What if it is him? What if it is Zoro? Hungry and out of his mind, burning, trapped within his own body? 

Another shriek splits the air between them, shrill, high, and so chilling that Sanji can only swallow, each inch and step he takes feeling as if he’s wading through cement. The howl pewters out like a scratched record skipping over parts of a track. 

“Sanji,” Usopp hisses skittishly, face pale, eyes black, and the points of his fangs shining in the light. He’s ready to fight, though it’s clear from the way that he’s not moving that he doesn’t want to. 

Beside him, Vivi has similarly transformed, becoming something less human and more unhinged. “Are you going to check it out?” Do you want us to come with you? 

Vivi the gentle one. Usopp the empathetic one. And Sanji, Sanji, Sanji, the fighter because no one else is. “It’s fine,” he says, fangs turning his mouth into a weapon of its own. “I’ll go check it out. Stay here and be safe.”

“We’re coming with you,” Usopp snaps, voice failing to hide the waver in his words, and Sanji huffs out a breath of affectionate laughter.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “But I’m not planning on fighting. I’m just going to scope how badly the thing’s messing with our trash, and then slip back in. No big deal.” 

Usopp visibly relaxes, but Sanji knows that they’d go with him if he asked. If there was only one thing in the world that he could believe in, Sanji would believe in the certainty of their support. 

Another brutal slam, this time of metal, as if the vampire outside is trying to destroy the shell of something steel, followed by a long screech as something sharp drags along the surface. 

Their dumpster, given the nature of their products, is dripping in crimson. It’s the stench of blood that’s lured this thing in, an oasis for a starving man. 

The back door creaks when he pushes it open, and Sanji winces, freezing. The first thing he spots in the alleyway is toppled trashcans, some of which have been shredded into jagged pieces. 

A clang. The start of another laugh, coming from the right side. A shadow, long and distorted, warped and wrong, back arched too far back, as if laughing hard enough to do a backflip. Bones cracking as the body contorts. 

Sanji creeps around the upturned cardboard boxes, and carefully treads over the trashcans, making his way to the end of the bricked-off alleyway. 

There’s a man there, except he isn’t a man anymore, is he?

He looks young, nearly the same age as Sanji. The newborn's eyes are completely black, no iris to be found, and black veins visibly course through his hands, his arms, his neck up to his face. There’s a small scar underneath one of his eyes.

On the ground in front of him lays a battered straw hat. 

It must have stayed on his head after he’d transformed, fallen off just now. It’s come a long way, seen terrible things, and it’s the hat that allows sympathy to chafe at Sanji’s already scraped-up heart. 

He peers down the alleyway again. 

Sanji’s run into newborns before, has been able to handle them with no problem, but there’s something off about this one that puts him on edge. 

A curious intelligence.

Power. 

Unconsciously, Sanji takes a step back, and the newborn bolts toward him and lunges with a speed that’s abnormal, even for a famished recently changed vampire.

Sanji lashes out, landing a blow across his cheek, launching him backward. 

The roundhouse kick to the face doesn’t seem to be doing much, and the newborn straight up bounces against the floor like a fucking rubber ball, and grins, teeth jagged and knife-like. 

“Fuck!” he snaps, the weight of the situation and the dizziness of blood-hunger hitting him both like a back-to-back punch. “Fuck!” 

The newborn charges him again and he kicks him aside, except the newborn expects it, and darts to the side, arms wrapped around Sanji’s leg, and slams him to the floor, laughing straight into his face, nails raking the ground so close to Sanji’s ear that he thinks that they’ll start bleeding. 

The boy-creature leans in. The stench of rotting sour meat invades Sanji’s nostrils and he gags. Get this guy some fucking Listerine, please. 

With a solid thrust, he manages to plant his heel into the newborn's stomach and send him flying against the wall. 

Scrambling to his feet, he waits for the crazed newly transformed vamp to rush him again which it does with startling predictability. Mimicking the newborn’s strategy, he staggers to the side before slamming the creature straight into the closest wall with his hand gripping the boy’s skull. 

“Sanji!” Vivi yells, shooting forward, as the boy writhes like a pinned butterfly. 

“Get back!” he snarls, pulling back his hand, and slamming the creature’s head against the wall again. The only reassuring thing about this is that these guys heal fast, and there’ll be no lasting damage. Sanji isn’t exactly going to be winning awards out here for Mr. Humanity. 

Vivi gasps and Usopp’s face is more ashen than Sanji’s ever seen it. That’s fair. Sanji is bashing some kid’s head against brick. That's not a pretty sight for anyone. 

A final slam, and the newborn goes limp. 

“Shit, Sanji, are you alright?” 

He’s bruised and battered, but not disemboweled or decapitated. His apron is a fucking mess though, and that's honestly the most annoying part. Does he still have Tide Pods or does he have to go shopping again?

“Move all our stuff from the second freezer to the first one. You have any restraints?” 

“I found some rope in storage,” Vivi calls, sticking her head out of the door.

“Great, toss it over.” 

He quadruple knots the rope, binding the unconscious being down, then lifts him up and takes him to the freezer, where the lower temperatures’ll make him more lethargic and the soundproof walls will prevent the cops from looking too much into it.

Jesus, he’s thinking the same way those dipshits on those true crime videos think. 

Carefully, he picks the straw hat off the ground and dusts it. It’s been worn quite a bit, he notes. Well-loved and mended more than once. In careful hands, he takes it in and sets it on top of a drawer in his office. 

He makes a mental note: to be returned when the kid gets better. 

 “How much blood can we afford to spare?” Sanji asks, twisting to face Vivi. 

“You’re thinking of helping him?” 

“Someone helped us once,” Sanji says without looking at her. He does feel her hand settle on his shoulder, the reaffirming squeeze, and the sheer understanding that he will be grateful for his entire life. 

Zoro doesn’t come the next day either. 

Sanji thinks of breath that smells like rotting flesh and swallows.

He goes another day without touching blood. Then another. The newborn needs it more. All the while, his throat gets drier and drier, and the pounding behind his skull begins to hit heavier and heavier, trapped in a boxing match against himself. 

Well, fuck financials. That’s the least of his worries now. 

#

Contrary to what people think, Sanji wasn’t born with sharpened canines and a penchant for blood. He was changed at the ripe age of eight, one snowy winter night. In a story tragic enough to rival the Little Match Girl, his family had thrown him out of the house hoping that he’d freeze to death in the sub-zero storm raging on outside. 

In a way, he did die, there on some street in New York. And in a way, he didn’t. 

He remembers the glowing yellow light from inside of the house, how warm it had looked. How he had banged on the large mahogany door with his fists so hard that he’d left behind bloody smears, and how an hour later, Reiju had opened the door with a hand warmer and a blanket, then shut the door behind her.

There was a difference between helping when nothing is on the line and helping at a cost to yourself. Sanji knows that now. He hadn’t back then, begging for someone, anyone to please open the door, it was so cold outside, please, please, please.

The minutes had ticked by and the temperature had just kept dropping. When it became so cold that he couldn’t feel his face anymore, the stinging numbness of the snow just a buzzing sensation of nothing, he’d dragged himself into an alleyway too cold to even shiver.

“You poor thing,” a woman had crooned when he’d dropped into the snow, face first from exhaustion. There was a dumpster fire somewhere ahead of him, beyond his reach, obscured in thin sheets of white. 

Or maybe he had dreamt it and there was no fire after all. He had no clue. “God, I am starving, and the devil knows that pickings are slim in this weather, but you are pitiful, aren’t you?” 

A hand brushed away his hair from his face, or at least he think it did. The nerve endings on his face couldn’t process anything anymore. The ice kept pelting his body, and he tried curling up on himself even more than physically possible, trying to keep what little warmth was emitting from his tiny pulsing heart in his body. 

Sanji recalls how the initial bite stung. The iron trickling down his throat burned. And the sudden hunger utterly ravaged him, vision washed away in a haze of red, as his tiny child’s back arched and bones cracked and all he could do was laugh, carved out of him as his wail vanished into the snow. Someone picked him up and dropped him on a doorstep—Zeff’s doorstep. 

Implicitly, he knows that Zeff took care of him, hunted for him, fed him until he fully transformed. Trained him to act human, to keep a supply of coconut water on him at all times, much less suspicious than a blood bag. 

He owed everything to Zeff, even if his memory of the beginning was fragmented into bits of pieces of sound and image. When he was ten, he’d overheard Carne mutter that Zeff had nearly starved, plying Sanji with whatever blood he’d managed to scrounge from the blood banks or from friends. 

At some point, the old man had almost gone feral with hunger and gnawed off his leg. The pain was enough to snap him out of it, but only barely, and there were hunters, of course, because Zeff had been a big deal and a little untouchable, but there was also a good Samaritan who’d illicitly snuck him a blood bag to bring him back down to sanity before he crossed the edge of no return.

Rumor said that it was a hunter that saved him, but Zeff never confirmed it, so Sanji never pushed. 

Sanji wishes that he had something to cling onto besides this hazy gratitude for a time that slips in between the folds of his mind like sand in his hands, but all he can bring forth is the hunger, beating at the corners of his skull, raw and famished. 

The hunger.

The hunger. 

The only rule at All Blue: no one goes unfed, not even hunters. Not even newborns. 

#

The newborn eats and eats and eats. His pupils remain fully black, nowhere near fully adjusted to his new form, and his head moves sharply, tracking Sanji’s every move, a smile slashed across his face.

Whatever blood personal stash that Sanji was siphoning to fuel the restaurant goes to the newly turned vampire tied up in his freezer. 

“You’re thinking of cutting the hours we're open?” Vivi asks at the end of the first five days. She’s bullied him into drinking a little bit of a blood-infused cappuccino, but he’d only taken a sip to stop the jackhammer going at his skull before bringing the rest to the back for their surprise guest.

“Not yet,” he’d admitted. “First, I’m asking if you, Usopp, and Pudding will be okay with that. It would be cutting down on tips and I know you’ve got rent to pay…” He trails off, suddenly aware of how much he’s asking of them. “No, never mind.” 

He’d been hoping that with the shortened hours, that he’d be able to spare a little more blood, both for himself and to aid with the transformation, but they can’t afford to do that either, can they? 

Ugh, late-stage capitalism is even more of a hindrance than blood dependency. Christ.

He presses his face to a table Usopp wiped down with a rag five minutes ago and sighs. 

“Hey man,” Usopp says, taking a seat next to him. “How are you going to take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself first?” 

Sanji turns his head to look at him. You don’t get it, he wants to say, but that would be another lie (Sanji’s been lying a lot, recently, hasn’t he?), because it’s Usopp, his best friend for ages who puts up with Sanji when he’s dead weight on his feet, and has always supported him unconditionally through thick and thin.

“He needs so much blood,” he replies, a little dazed. “I made a promise that if anyone needed help the same way that I needed help, I’d do everything I could. Would fucking help if his stomach wasn’t a black hole, though.”  

Usopp leans back in his chair, a weary but fond look on his face. “Okay, I might not be human, but I’m pretty sure I’m not blind. Aren’t you already doing everything you can? Or is this a ploy to get Zoro to meet up with you again except to put you down? You know that’s not as attractive as it sounds, right?”

“I won’t go feral,” Sanji protests.

Usopp says something, voice plunged underwater, and Sanji blinks slowly, once, twice. “What?”

“I said,” Usopp says. “I don’t like totally get it, why you’re picking up this kid off the street when you don’t even know him, but at the same time, I do. If this is what you want, I’m behind you, but don’t think I won’t try to shove blood down your throat if it comes down to it.” 

“You couldn’t take me.”

“Sure I could. I have a secret weapon.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“It wouldn't be a secret if I told you. Hello?” 

Thank you, Sanji thinks with a rush of gratitude. Usopp, who claims to be the more unvampire vampire to exist, is one of the reasons that Sanji feels at ease in his own skin. Sanji sighs again. Usopp reaches out, hand clenched in his fist, and Sanji bumps his own balled hand against Usopp’s.

“If I do go crazy,” Sanji says with finality. “What will you do?” No jokes this time. 

“It won’t come to that,” Usopp says, but his voice shakes toward the end, and Sanji is so tired. 

If it truly comes down to it, Sanji will put himself out of his misery. Once, he might have asked Zoro to do it, but Zoro is long gone, leaving behind a dull ache and a solemn reminder that there are only so many people you can rely on. 

Thank god the mosshead isn’t here to see him in this state. There’s no way that he’s date material at this moment. At best, he’ll be despondent on their outings. At worst, he’ll try to take a chunk out of Zoro’s jugular, and put the crazy in don’t stick your dick in crazy. 

By day seven, Sanji drops three coffees and trips, landing on his face, skidding a couple feet with the same physics as a cartoon figure. 

By day eight, he’s exiled to the pastries with Pudding and walks around like a vodka-logged ghost. 

By day nine, he remembers what it’s like to starve. 

#

“Holy shit, you look like Death if Death put on a Sanji Halloween costume,” Usopp blurts out. 

It’s honestly a very creative way of saying that he looks like shit. Sanji still has it in him to give him credit where credit’s due. 

Usopp drags him into the kitchen and pours him a cup of precious undiluted blood. 

Sanji stares at it, a little horrified. He checked the prices this morning. One gallon of blood, purchased at wholesale price went from $300 to $1000. How much would a sip of this cup be? Like, ten bucks? 

The thought makes him sicker than the nausea of his protesting stomach. His eyes drift over to the freezer. There's a muffled thump so soft that Sanji wouldn't have heard it if he weren't paying so much attention to their unruly guest. Newborns are never sated. Not for another couple of weeks. Until then, that terrible empty feeling of not enough will plague them, consume them. 

Sanji takes a sip so small that he’s not sure he’s actually drinking anything, but Usopp seems pacified by this. “That cup better be finished by the time that I get back,” he jokingly orders as a customer rings the bell up front. 

“Sure, sure.”

The cup is empty when Usopp gets back. It’s just that Sanji isn’t the one who drank it. 

#

Sanji stops going to work two days later. He isn’t himself much anymore. It’s probably about time, since there are fewer and fewer customers coming in, and Sanji wonders if he’s scaring them off. He is, after all, a ticking time bomb of sorts.

At some point, a street preacher asks him if he needs an exorcism, and Sanji nearly takes him up on his offer, which means things are bad since he thinks exorcisms are as legitimate as phishing scams about his non-existent grandmother needing his Social Security number. 

His last day working is bittersweet. 

“It's not that they're not coming because they’re scared,” Pudding finally breaks it to him as he stares at a shop that’s half as full as it used to be. 

“They’re not coming because they’re worried that you're starving yourself to keep the cafe alive, and thought you could have more of the leftover blood if they didn’t order any. It was a whole thing on the restaurant Facebook thread.” She reaches out and brushes the hair out of his face. “We’re vamps. We look after our own. And they’re concerned about you.” 

It’s very kind of their clientele, except it’s a lose-lose-lose on all fronts because now the shop is not generating revenue, all the extra blood is going into the newborn’s chasm of a gullet, and Sanji is still feeling like a salted herring on the Sahara desert: overheated and drained and in the wrong place. 

Usopp and Vivi take turns showing up randomly at his place, always with something in their hands. A glass of blood. A box of blood-infused birthday cake, dripping in moisture. 

They don’t say supplies are dwindling, but Sanji can tell. He’s going mad, but he’s not stupid. Alright, yeah, he's stupid about some things, but never when it comes to reading his friends. He knows that they’re coming in earlier and earlier, slashing hours at the store because they’re selling out all of their goods fast; All Blue is one of the few places still supplying blood at a semi-affordable rate.

He knows how much blood it takes to keep a newly turned adult sated. He thinks of himself, small, and starving, lashing out and sinking his fangs into Zeff’s leathered hand, desperate, and alone. 

It’s easy for him to pretend to eat, to pretend to drink. He sneaks bites here and there, which seems convincing enough for his two defacto caretakers, then stashes it somewhere safe, so that late at night, he can sneak into the coffee shop, and into the freezer where the boy is waiting like a baby bird waiting for its mother to bring back a worm. 

The point is, that he is eating. Somewhat. It’s probably why he’s lasted as long as he does. 

#

A hunter strides into the store, hair mused up, bags under his eyes like his head hasn’t touched a pillow in ages. He tried to come yesterday, at four, but the shop changed its hours from five to two. This past week, he’s been killing himself trying to find his best friend who vanished in a particularly brutal skirmish. 

“Hey,” Zoro says, and everyone in the shop swivels their head in his direction. It feels like he’s stumbled upon one of those hidden camera pranks, but Sanji would never tolerate something like that in his store. 

“Hey, Zoro,” the barista—Usopp calls. He looks worse for wear too. “Let me guess, a small black coffee and a matcha muffin?” He grins, but Zoro notices how it doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. 

Still, hope blossoms in Zoro’s chest. 

Sanji’s been talking about him to Usopp. That's usually a good sign, might mean that the barista hasn't completely given up on Zoro, no matter how hopeless the hunter acknowledges he can be. It's not like Zoro tried to be, though.

He tried to call, but his phone got smashed, and there’s been no time to do anything but to comb this god fucking sprawling city and take out the ferals that are popping up like rabbits, and god, he knows that on paper, it looks like he ghosted Sanji, but if he could explain himself—

“Is Sanji—?”

“He’s uh, taking a vacation,” Usopp lies, and Zoro swallows, trying to peer behind him to see if the blonde is somewhere hiding in the back, avoiding him. Usopp steps in his line of sight. 

Shit. 

“Look, if I could just talk to him—”

“He’s not here,” Vivi pipes up from behind the coffee machine. There’s that steely look in her eyes, one that Zoro recognizes all too well. “He’s taking some time off.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Usopp and Vivi exchange a glance. “Nope, no fucking clue,” Usopp says, taking a cup of black coffee from Vivi along with a brown paper bag. “Here you go. On the house. You look like you could use a nap.” 

They’re hiding Sanji from him, and don’t get him wrong, Zoro’s glad that Sanji has friends that’ll look out for him, but they’re not exactly making Zoro’s life easier here. 

“Why—”

“It’s not you,” Vivi says, face gentling a little. “It’s personal. I promise.”

Is it?  

# 

There are times when Sanji blacks out and finds himself standing somewhere he wasn’t before. 

People are slowly becoming less and less human and increasingly reduced to blood types. O positive. B positive. AB negative. His fangs are unable to retract, revealing themselves if he opens his mouth even just a bit. His mouth tastes like iron when he wakes up, and he dreams of ripping raw flesh from the bone.

The last time he goes outside, it’s because he’s desperate for coconut water, even though it’s nearly stopped working as a substitute. The placebo effect, he thinks vainly. It’ll only last for so long, barely works now, but buying some time is better than buying no time. 

On the way to the store, sunglasses on, face mask snuggly into place, resembling a celebrity more than a starving store owner, he bumps into the girl with orange hair. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, trying to get the world to stop spinning. He needs to make another stop at the coffee shop, he thinks. The newly-born is probably still hungry even though he’s slurped down a gallon of Type B negative like a goddamned Kirby vacuum. 

“No worries,” she says, eyeing the contents of his cart. 

He won’t notice her follow him from the shop to the coffee shop and then back to his home in Koreatown. 

He certainly won’t see the way that she huffs after stalking him, pulling out her phone to call her friend, only to remember that his phone broke in the violent fight, the same one in which Luffy vanished. They’ve been searching for Luffy for days, hardly sleeping, barely eating. 

At a house in Crenshaw, Zoro watches the girl pace back and forth.

She suddenly stills, stops resembling an agitated animal, but then she turns to Zoro: “I’m tracking a guy that’s about to turn feral, Zoro. I think—you should have seen him, looked like fucking Jack Skeleton. He was buying so much coconut water, but if you’re that far gone, why bother? It doesn’t make sense.”

Zoro considers this carefully, hands drifting to the hilts of his sword. They have no other leads, and they need this, need to find Luffy, because Luffy isn't the kind of person to just die, which means he's still out there.

One person's already slipped out of Zoro's grasp. Like hell he's going to let another. “You think—?”

“I think there’s a chance he might know exactly what happened to Luffy.” 

#

For the most part, Sanji sleeps. Or well, as close to sleep as he can get. He feels like someone’s flayed the inside of his throat apart, layer by layer, but when he’s able to lapse into trances, it’s not too bad. 

Sometimes, when he trances, he dreams, and that’s the best. Usopp, him, and Vivi grouped in a study room in a college library, bickering over the pros and cons of starting their own shop. The feeling of delight when he first perfected his latte heart. 

Meeting people in the community. Jewelry, Pedro, Viola. 

Robin. Pudding. 

Zoro.

Zoro appears more often than not, always against a backwash of city lights and stars, always surrounded by light. Occasionally, they would meet up at All Blue, and Zoro would just talk, always something of importance that Sanji never remembered when he woke up. Tidbits of his life forgotten. 

Once, and only once, did Zoro seem sad in his dreams. In that dream, they were riding a dying star, flying from planet to planet, meeting strange people who lived strange lives. They landed on one beautiful but rather barren asteroid, and Zoro said something along the lines of This is where it happened. 

All Blue had been the only thing there on that tiny rock, and Zoro took his hand and led him into the abandoned coffee shop. It was dark. There were no lights, but there was a rose on the counter up front, trapped in a glass container. 

“He’s dying,” Zoro had whispered, mournfully. “And there’s nothing I can do.” 

Who the fuck do you think is dying? Sanji wanted to say, but he couldn’t. Then, he woke up and instantly wished in the impending vertigo that he hadn’t. 

Usopp promised that he and Vivi would look after the newborn in the basement. Was it a basement? No, it wasn’t. Sanji was the one who would be locked in the basement when he was younger. Where did they leave the kid? Did Sanji just lose a kid? 

A kid? Whose kid? His kid? He was a kid once, he thinks. A small one, a little underfed. Sad. Cold. God, he hates the cold. 

He’s so hungry. 

There are walking bags of blood just strolling outside. He can sense them, wants to bite into them. Drain them dry, leave behind nothing but skin and bone and unhydrated muscle. 

He shakes his head, stumbling into the restroom. Shit. Shit. What the fuck is he thinking? 

The reflection of him in the mirror stares back at him, haggard and monstrous. His skin is sheet white, eyes black and veiny, and his fangs have never been more deadly. Nails—no claws, dark and long, grip the edge of the sink so hard that the ceramic cracks. 

His throat is an ugly mess of veins, black and red, and when he tries to swallow, his entire body convulses in pain. 

He’s so hungry. He wants to eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. 

He could drink an entire fucking horse dry. He could drink all the people walking by his house. A man is biking by. Meal on wheels. 

Sanji stops. He's not like them, doesn't —doesn’t kill. That’s fucking barbaric—they’re not in Victorian London.

It gets harder to get his bearings about him every time he wakes up. He finds a small bag of type AB negative, sucks it dry, but it’s like giving a starving man a single piece of chocolate—not nearly enough. 

The hours tick by. 

He feels it coming, the tidal wave of red-hot insatiable howling well up inside of him, and he tries to stop it, but what can a beach umbrella do to block a tsunami?

The scream that builds up inside of him is eating him alive.

Then, nothing. 

#

The front door creeps open, and something not-completely Sanji strolls out, wearing an imperfect human disguise. 

It wants nothing but to feast tonight, but a little nagging part of its brain says that there’s something that it needs to check on, something or someone that seems to be important to him. There’s a boy somewhere that needs to be fed first. Then, he can eat. The thought tugs on his mind, all instinct, and his feet move where that sleepy pull guides him. 

Whistling eerily, the blonde feral begins to walk back toward the coffee shop. 

#

“Where did you say he lived?” Zoro asks. The full moon is up, hanging low in the sky, a silver fruit ripe for eating. 

“C’mon,” Nami says, retractable staff in hand. “It’s—he wasn’t going to last long. You know ferals, they tend to haunt places of sentimental value before they completely lose their mind. And there’s one place that I want to check first.” 

Trepidation fills Zoro’s gut as they get closer and closer to a coffee shop he knows all too well. “Nami,” he calls, voice hoarse. “The feral. What did you say he looked like again?”

Nami frowns, trying to bring up the memory. “Blonde, I think. He was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, but you don’t forget eyebrows that curl like that.”

Zoro grits his teeth, and thinks, please don’t be in there. Don’t make me hurt you.

In the wind, he swears he hears Sanji’s laughter, soft and a little teasing. Who do you think will be hurting who, mosshead? 

#

Here’s a joke: a vampire hunter walks into a vampire cafe, run by vampires, for vampires. 

The punchline is that no one dies. The punchline is that the vampire being hunted loved the hunter. The punchline is that the vampire hunter loved the vampire. The punchline is that there is no punchline. 

The punchline is that the joke isn’t funny anymore. 

Chapter Text

Nami picks the locks of All Blue with ease, carefully pushing on the door, which gives under her palm without complaint.

Immediately, she takes a step back, hand on her staff, ready for something to surge out of the restaurant at full speed. She’s dealt with ferals set on ripping out her jugular the moment they see her, but there’s no movement from inside the shop.

A stillness settles over the air like a dust layer. Not a chair out of place, stacked upside-down on tables. Booths are wiped down and pristine. Bookshelves unruffled.

It's a ghost town in there.

Nami blinks. Was she wrong?

Los Angeles is vast, sprawling. Intercepting a feral on the other side of town could take a twenty-minute drive, and how many people can die in twenty minutes?

Five pale and mangled bodies flicker across her imagination like a lightning bolt, and she shakes the thought out of her head before the worry can so much as nibble on her rationale.

“Shit. I might have made a mistake. I was certain that he’d head here before he fully—”

“He’s here,” Zoro mutters, a veneer of horror underlying the disbelief in his tone. For the first time since arriving on the scene, Nami studies her partner. “If there’s anywhere he’d be, it’s here.”

“How would you know that?” Zoro’s face is waxen. Under the light of the moon, he looks haggard, like he’s aged five years just by standing here.

“Zoro,” she snaps. Like a child working backward on a paper maze, Nami runs through the conversation that they just had, how he’d asked for the description of the feral.

How happy he’d been since they moved their headquarters to Santa Monica. He refused to tell them what it was that sent him home with such a lightness in his step, with a quirk of his lips that threatened to break out into a grin at any second every other day, but she had her suspicions.

Luffy had followed him one day through twisting side streets and come back with that mischievous I know something you don’t glimmer in his eyes. He refused to spill what it was, cracking only when Nami threatened to switch them to a vegetarian diet.

“Zoro’s in love,” he’d yelped, immediately throwing Zoro under the bus when Nami moved to throw away the steak that they’d bought for that night. “With some blonde barista!”

“Zoro?” She sputtered, forgetting about the meat, which Luffy all but tackled out of her hand, not unlike a dog snatching a frisbee out of the air. “Zoro’s in love?” Zoro was more likely to be dead than in love. Sure, he loved, in the very general sense, the quite underlying gruff affection way that he always approached life, but in love was a whole different monster.

When he’d arrived home later than usual that night, Nami had all but jumped him for details. “Were you on a date?” Zoro had moved to step around her, but she intercepted him, noting the way that the tips of his ears flared bright red, and his refusal to make eye contact with her.

“You were!” she crowed. “Oh my god, you were! You—” she said, sticking her finger into his broad chest. “Are going to introduce Luffy and me to whoever you’re seeing—”

“First of all, over my dead fucking body, and second, you’re making this into a bigger deal than it is—”

“Shut the fuck up. You think it’s every day you get to meet someone who has Roronoa Zoro feeling butterflies?”

Zoro knows a losing battle when he sees one. “I’ll introduce you both to him tomorrow,” he said with a beleaguered sigh like Nami had demanded that he punt a puppy off a cliff instead of making an introduction. “C’mon, don’t we have reports of a bunch of newborns and ferals? You’re on support duty instead of the frontlines tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re grouping up with some locals to take out a nest. But more importantly, you’re taking us to meet Wonderboy tomorrow, right?

“Sure. Fine. Tomorrow. Whatever.”

That night, four hunters go in and only one comes out.

Tomorrow becomes never.

And never becomes today, apparently.

“It’s him, isn’t it. The guy who you’re in love with. He’s the feral.”

Zoro purses his lips, doesn’t say a word, and for Nami, that’s answer enough.

Love, she decides, can be horrible.

#

Still, a threat is a threat, and there’s a job that needs to be done, even if Nami’s heart does break for her friend.

She steps into the shop, shoes clacking against the polished wood. After a moment of hesitation, Zoro enters too, cautiously, as if hyperaware of crossing a boundary he’s not supposed to be crossing.

Nami’s seen him kick down doors before without giving a single shit.

Besides their footsteps, the inside of the coffee shop is as silent as the grave. Blinds have been pulled down, but from the cracks in the shutters, the glow of the streetlights seeps into the room, leaving slivers of orange light in its wake. The coffee shop, Nami notices, has a lot of open space vertically, between the floor and the roof, where she can see the wooden beams and huge metal vents that have been tastefully decorated with pothos plants.

“Let’s split up,” she tells Zoro, fully aware that it’s the kind of move to get you killed in a horror movie, but the shop is small, and it won’t take Nami or Zoro more than five minutes to get from the front entrance to the back door.

Zoro nods curtly, hand still resting on the hilt of one of his katanas, making his way to the kitchen. Nami walks toward the office, where she uses her lock-picking skills on this door as well. This shop needs a better security system, she muses.

The little office is neatly organized, with papers stacked into neat piles, and a computer monitor casting a large looming shadow onto the wall in what little moonlight seeps in. She closes the door behind her and flicks on the light.

The brightness of the white fluorescent bulbs disorients her for a second, and she rubs her eyes, trying to clear the flashes bursting behind her eyelids.

When she's finally able to regain her basic ability to see, the first thing that her eyes are drawn to is a very familiar object perched upon a filing cabinet.

A hat.

Dread sinks its claws into her and drags downward, eviscerating her anxiousness into something crueler. All sympathy she has toward Zoro's boy toy murderer shatters like a broken windshield. So much for innocent until proven guilty. The smoking gun is lying right there.

She grabs the battered straw, that was Luffy's, is Luffy's (He's not dead. He can't be dead, not him, not Luffy). It's flecked with bits of blood and dirt, and Nami bolts out of the office to find Zoro.

#

There’s something wrong with this situation, Zoro thinks. There are a lot of things wrong with this situation actually, which primarily include the tiny fact that Sanji is a vampire, and to top the cherry on the perfect Sunday, he's a dying one who may or may not know where Luffy is.

The signs had all been there, now that Zoro really looks back on it; the way that Sanji always got food for certain customers from the back, the way that his friends fended Zoro like he was going to take Sanji down once he got wind of the blonde’s condition, even the initial hostile undercurrent of his first visit that abated with time.

And despite it all, Sanji had agreed to go out with Zoro, to humor him in their little debates and banters, had kissed him, sweet, and soft without any bite, swallowing down his secrets, keeping them festering in his gullet until it had imploded on them.

He’d taken a risk, even then, and Zoro can’t find it in himself to be mad. Irritated, sure, but it’s understandable. Sanji has no way of knowing what kind of hunter Zoro is.

Some things, though, still don’t line up. Why would Sanji, who owns a coffee shop that offers bloody specialties, be starving? In the worst case, he could just take a spoonful from the shop’s stocks and everyone would be none the wiser.

Zoro idly trails a finger over the rim of a stainless steel sink, rubbing his index and his thumb together idly.

There’s not a speck of dust to be seen, no water stains, nothing. His finger leaves behind a smear but besides that, there’s not a single sign of life.

A true feral would have trashed this place, sent tankards toppling to the ground, knocked the baking racks all over the floor. They would have been located in seconds instead of playing this messed-up game of hide-and-seek.

The dissonance makes Zoro’s nerves bristle.

Sanji’s here, isn’t he? Or maybe there were other secrets that Sanji was keeping from him, things he wasn’t privy to due to the nature of what Zoro is. There has to be something more—

An unnatural thud reverberates in his bones.

The walk-in freezer. Zoro unsheathes one of his swords, walking closer and closer to the large metal container.

“Zoro!” Nami hisses, voice echoing off the corners of the vast empty space. He whips his head toward her so fast that he thinks he hears something crack.

In her hands is a hat.

Another thud and Zoro exchanges a glance with Nami. “Do you think that he’s in there?” she asks.

“Someone is,” Zoro mutters in response while Nami readies her staff. “One, two—”

The entrance slides open with a creak that seems to last for eternity. The freezer light buzzes, switching on automatically, shedding white light on a sleeping newborn with empty vials and containers strewn on the shelves around him, licked clean and shining.

On the floor, a ladle in an empty vat. Tacky blood surrounds Luffy’s mouth as he snores, more vampire now than newborn, gangly limbs bound tight by rope.

“Oh thank god,” Nami exhales, rushing into the freezer, cradling Luffy’s head in her hands. He doesn’t stir, just lazily snuffs, and continues to snooze the night away. Carefully, she places the straw hat onto his head, making sure that it fits snuggly. From a distance, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that Luffy was anything but his old self.

Luffy shifts in her grip, cheek accidentally bumping into Nami’s sleeve. When she pulls away, there’s a faint crimson smear, blood still wet.

Zoro stares. Blood still wet. Why is the blood still wet?

“I’m going to kill the bastard that did this to him,” Nami snarls, looking more beast than girl, vengeance marring her features. “I’m going to burn this coffee shop to the fucking ground. Then, I’m going to hunt that fucker down and make him wish he was never born.”

Zoro makes a noise of agreement, tracking the stain as she gestures violently. The scene before him should make Zoro livid, but that smoldering burning sensation that he associates with fury is strangely absent.

Sanji sure as hell played him like a fiddle if he was the one who turned Luffy, but truthfully, Zoro’s more confused than anything. Something's off about the scene and he feels like a kid trying to cram two wrong puzzle pieces together.

Nami’s sleeve gets too close again, coming away with another smudge of burgundy.

Why is the blood around Luffy’s mouth still wet?

“Hold up, Nami. Just—a bunch of things aren’t lining up.”

That look that Nami sends his way is so dark that he’d be quaking if his profession was say, an office grunt instead of a pseudo-vigilante. As it is, he just takes a step back while Nami rants. “Well, Zoro, Luffy’s in this guy’s fridge, in case you’ve lost your other eye, which I know you haven’t. Not to mention he’s tied up. Even if your puppy crush—” she spits the word out like poison. “--didn’t turn him, he’s been keeping him here for his sick fucking amusement like a pet and I’m going to skin him alive.”

At that moment, Zoro knows that she’s wrong. If Sanji were just keeping Luffy here for amusement’s sake, then he wouldn’t be giving up blood, not when it’s worth its weight in gold these days. It would be much more entertaining to let him go hungry, then insane, then wither away.

Zoro’s killed enough sadistic motherfuckers to know their modus operandum.

Furthermore, if Zoro were starving he sure as hell wouldn’t be handing out food to others. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be out of instinct but choice.

Choice.

“He’s been feeding him,” Zoro realizes like a sack of bricks just dumped themselves over his head. “He’s been starving so Luffy—fucking idiot. Nami, it isn’t him.”

It makes sense. It’s the only logical explanation that makes sense. It explains Sanji’s current condition despite the vast supply of freshly available sustenance. Because it was all going into Luffy’s maw. Turns out he’s as much of a pain to feed in death as he is in life.

“Wake up, Zoro!” Nami’s hand has wrapped around the ladle, ready to pitch it at him. “God, this isn’t the time to give people the benefit of the doubt. Your best friend is tied up in a fucking coffee shop freezer run by vampires. Do me a favor and stop using the head between your legs and use the one in your skull! Do you like seeing him like this?” She shakes Luffy who has the physics of a rag doll. “Well, do you?”

“Shut up, witch!” Zoro roars back, the anger finally settling into his veins. “You use your brain. Luffy’s been fed, alright? That’s why the blood all over your clothes is still wet. Why the fuck would a starving vamp be feeding a newborn in this economy?”

Breathing heavily with indignant righteousness, Nami stares at him. Then back at Luffy. Who’s still asleep. Who’s nearly fully transformed and hasn’t so much as woken up despite being so close to her beating heart. Slowly, she turns her arm over, taking in the sight of the blemishes on the fabric.

Zoro pinpoints the moment where she finally comes around, how she swallows, and the way she sucks in a low inhale of concern.

Slowly, she raises her arm and rubs at the stain, pulling away her fingers. “You’re right. It’s fresh,” she says, and the next terrible truth hits both of them simultaneously. Fresh means recent.

There was no sound of a door opening or closing.

Sanji is still here.

On cue, the whistling begins, a tune that Zoro recognizes from his childhood. He knows the lines by heart, the summertime memory of Kuina singing this song as it played on an old CD player, the two of them chomping on watermelon by the beach, scorching through his mind like a bullet.

Remember me to one who lives there. For she was a true love of mine.

Zoro slowly turns his head up toward the ceiling.

Perched upon one of the huge air ducts sits Sanji, staring down at them with those black eyes, Scarborough Fair floating from his lips. He’s pale, probably cold to the touch, legs kicking back and forth, back and forth.

Sanji has always loved the heavens, always yearned upward, trying to get closer to the stars. Zoro was a fool for not thinking of looking up toward the sky.

When he notices Zoro gazing back, he stops. Zoro swears he can hear his own heart thudding in his chest, a drumbeat getting faster and faster. A smile stretches unnaturally wide across Sanji’s face, like someone’s made a grin out of Play-Doh and then smeared it longer.

Zoro remembers the way that Sanji’s hand had felt enveloped in his own. That small grin as he stood hypnotized by the space exhibits, and thinks that he will always recall Sanji like that. In the way that he’d want to be remembered if all this goes south.

“There you are,” Zoro mutters, drawing out another sword.

The vampire tilts his head as if in agreement, yellow hair haloing his face. Here I am.

Then he jumps at Zoro, fangs gleaming, and leg extended, ready to bash out Zoro’s skull with the heel of his dress shoe.

#

Sanji’s kick slams right into Zoro’s swords, crossed and braced for the onslaught. It sends him skidding several inches back, and Zoro grunts, trying to regain his footing. Sanji’s own growl is animalistic, ripped out of him, as if against his will.

Sanji flips off of the swords, landing on his feet, arms dangling in front of him loosely like a beast, ready to run on all fours.

“Zoro!” Nami screams, rooted to her spot in the freezer. Torn between supporting her friend and staying with Luffy, Zoro makes the executive decision for her when Sanji swivels toward her general direction.

“Close the fucking door!” he roars. Sanji takes a step toward the freezer, then another, until he’s running. Nami with both hands on the handle hauls the slab with all her might until the freezer slides closed and clicks into place.

Just in time too. Sanji’s shoe slams into the metal so hard that the entire room tremors under the impact. It leaves a black smoking crater embedded into the steel.

“Oi! Dart-brows!” Zoro calls, catching his attention. Sanji refocuses, shaking himself off like a robot recalibrating, and stalks toward Zoro.

It’s Zoro who takes the initiative and lunges forward, flat end of the blade coming down in an arch from above. The feral dodges out of the way, hissing as another blade comes from his right, nearly biting into his shoulder.

Zoro shifts on the defense as Sanji considers him, hopping out of the way like he’s dodging a fussy child at the grocery store. It would be an easier battle if Zoro was willing to hurt him, just stick a blade into him and be done with it, but this is Sanji.

Sanji is not some feral on the street that just went batshit. Zoro knows his name. Knows about his likes and dislikes, how he personally takes his coffee (one sugar cube, too much milk), and what kind of cheese prefers (some fancy Belgium brand). Sanji, who thinks space rovers singing Happy Birthday to themselves is tragically sad. Stupid shit that only serves to humanize the thing trying to kill him.

The kicks come with such force that Zoro’s arms scream under the weight of each blow. The attacks pick up speed, until Zoro’s blocking is based on sheer muscle memory and instinct alone. Zoro hates being on the defense, believes that going on the offense is in fact, the best defense but he's also not eager to be murdered by a black dress shoe to the head.

Whoever taught this vampire capoeira needs to be kicked in the nuts.

Sanji lashes out again and Zoro grits his teeth. The scales are unbalanced. Of course, it is. One of them is obligated to hold back while the other one is doped up on starvation and has nothing to lose anymore.

He hasn’t realized that he's being pushed back until he feels the cool press of the wall oven on his back. “Shit,” he swears, as a heel slams into the wall beside him. If Sanji ever recovers from this, he’s going to be fucking pissed about the structural wreck.

Wearily, Zoro resolves to try to block the kicks that seem like they’ll do some expensive damage. It’s the least he can do.

He sees the freezer door slide open, and Nami appears, checking in on him with grim determination. She raises her staff, and he shakes his head, warding off another knock to the head. “Get Luffy out of here and take him to Chopper!” he calls.

Before she can protest, he snaps, “Go!”

Nami stares at him, a solemn understanding flooding between them both, and she vanishes back into the freezer, reappearing with Luffy slung across her back. There’s something across his mouth—Nami’s gagged him just in case with what looks like a cloth. “Don’t you dare die on me!”

Sanji considers the two of them, watching almost disinterestedly as Nami races for the door. Zoro sneers, bringing another sword at the vampire's head, drawing his attention away from the fleeing duo. “Focus, curly. Wouldn’t want me to complain to your manager, would you?”

They exchange pummeling hits, until Zoro hears the back door screech open, then slam shut with a boom that bounces off the walls as Nami escapes.

A kick catches him in the ribs, sending him flying into the wall next to the door leading out to the front and the register. At least one rib is fractured. Sanji is going to slaughter him if he doesn’t start fighting back.

He staggers up to his feet as Sanji snarls and hoists the twin blades in each hand, Wado in his mouth. A fury of slashes rains down on the vampire, who bares his fangs when the blades make contact. Thin cuts decorate Sanji's arms and chest, growing in number, but still too shallow to slow him down, little more than minor annoyances.

Zoro raises one of his swords and slams the flat end down hard across Sanji's cheek, snapping his head aside so hard that the vampire stumbles. There's a freeze-frame moment where no one moves.

Then Sanji's head snaps back like a tightly wound spring returning to position. Dark veins bunch in his neck as he snarls, more crazed than he was a couple of seconds ago. Fantastic. Zoro's pissed him off. He moves to replicate the move, only for Sanji to jump out of the way, making a murderous noise as he does so.

The dining area is expansive, especially with the tables and chairs pushed to the side, so Zoro lures Sanji out, taking a steady step back as the man advances.

Sanji circles him like a wolf testing a deer, assessing how easy it is to go for the throat.

Zoro’s blades point carefully at it. He raises his eyebrow, waiting.

All at once, in a blitzing frenzy, Sanji makes his move, dashing forward, flying through the air. Zoro deflects his first wild movements, swallowing hard as they rain down from all sides. Sanji skids back before pouncing again.

A terrible shk fills the air.

Both of them still.

One of Zoro’s swords is sticking from between Sanji’s ribs, sinking about four inches into his flesh. Something black, too thick and heavy to be human blood, weeps from the wound as the monster howls.

The sword bites into Sanji like a heated knife into butter. It wouldn’t be hard to push the blade through, end this by cleaving him in half. It’s not a fatal wound yet, but Zoro could make it one.

He can’t.

Sanji’s large black eyes, (not blue anymore, may never be blue again) fixed on Zoro’s grey ones are blown wide, as if he can’t believe that Zoro could do this to him. Gritting his teeth, Zoro ignores the way that his heart twangs painfully at the barista's confused look.

The vamp's paper-white black-veined hands wrap around the blade as if to push it out. The ink-like liquid seeps from his hand onto the floor. His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

If Zoro reached out, he could brush the hair out of Sanji’s face.

“Zoro .” Sanji—the feral—Sanji gasps, voice wheezy and choked. “ Stop. You—you’re hurting me. ”

Fully transformed ferals aren’t supposed to be capable of speech, Zoro thinks wildly. And they certainly wouldn’t be able to remember anyone’s name. Sanji might still be in there, provided he gets the blood he needs to make a full recovery—

Then, Sanji grins that terrible big grin, sensing the moment that Zoro falters, and pushes, all while wrenching his body. The squelch of the blade exiting his ribs will haunt Zoro for the years to come.

The feral stumbles to the side, hand pressing down on the wound, clearly off-kilter, but still with his eyes locked on Zoro, hungry and eager to take a bite.

Fuck. Zoro’s been thrown off balance for too long, and it gives Sanji enough time to slam into him before he can get his swords up.

It’s a full-body tackle, and Zoro tries desperately to shake him off, but there’s something about the strength of vampires that’s got Zoro at an unfair biological disadvantage despite how much iron he lifts.

Sanji twists in a way not meant for anything human to twist, and Zoro yells as something in his leg gives out. Whether he’s torn something or broken another bone, he has no clue. All he’s sure of is that it fucking hurts.

He’s still able to take the momentum and use it to his advantage, flipping them over and over in the world’s most uncomfortable roll as both of them grapple and try to pin the other down. They slam into the bookshelves sending novels and picture books toppling around them like rain.

Weight bearing down on Zoro, the feral flips them both, knocking Zoro's head against the floor hard enough that Zoro’s sight goes black momentarily. It’s enough of an opening for Sanji to warp one hand wrapped around Zoro’s windpipe, squeezing slowly, slowly, slowly, watching as Zoro struggles to breathe.

Zoro’s vision blurs at an alarming rate. His hands fly up to pry at Sanji’s vice-like fingers, scrambling over unyielding digits.

Leaning in, Sanji's blonde hair falls to tickle Zoro’s face as the hunter beneath him writhes for air. He sniffs as if savoring a particularly gourmet meal.

Strength seeping rapidly from his body, Zoro gropes for a book scattered around him and slaps Sanji across the face with it.

To be fair, the book is thin, so the shock was probably what threw Sanji off-kilter, but he lets go of Zoro’s throat and Zoro gratefully sucks in as much oxygen as he can, coughing.

The vamp recovered remarkably quickly, and he rips the book from Zoro’s hand. Then he stills.

Zoro’s swords are quite a bit away. He’s unable to tamp down the coughs that come spewing out of his fucking chest, the gasps of pain that escape him. His hand flies up to massage his windpipe, keeping a bleary eye on Sanji who looms above him, fist clenched about to throw a punch.

Sanji is still looking at the cover of the book, head tilted, as if he can’t make heads or tails of it. His brow is furrowed. Zoro glances at it, taking in the blue cover, the cartoon planet and—

Oh.

He was right. Sanji’s somewhere in there, almost gone maybe, but still here with Zoro.

What confirms his suspicions is the whine that worms its way from the creature. As a test, Zoro reaches out, and the thing that was, that is Sanji cringes backward. He recognizes Zoro, has dropped him on the Do Not Kill list so long as he has a conscience, but how long that'll be for, Zoro has no idea.

But he can still be saved. That’s what matters.

Zoro had his suspicions before; the way that Sanji wasn't yet screaming his head off like most other ferals was a good indicator but there are always exceptions to the norm and kindness can be both a guillotine and a virtue.

This confirms it though. Sanji's still in there. Somewhat.

“Hey,” Zoro rasps. “Hey, I got you. I got you. It’s okay.”

Sanji rocks back on his heels, giving Zoro enough leverage to finally sit up, even if his leg screams in protest. Another cough wracks his body, and the feral winces at the sound.

Those black eyes flicker up and down from Zoro’s face to his throat, humanity combatting his hunger. Well, he won’t have to fight himself any longer.

Gently, Zoro gives into what he ached to do earlier and brushes Sanji’s hair from his face, tucking blonde strands behind his ear. With a tenderness he didn’t know he had in him, he wraps a hand around the nape of Sanji’s neck and carefully nudges him closer so that Sanji’s face is resting on the crook between Zoro’s shoulder and neck.

Sanji shudders, inhaling in deeply, but doesn’t bite down. His muscles vibrate with restrained want.

“It’s fine,” Zoro breathes. “It’ll be alright.”

It’s a risky game that Zoro’s playing. He doesn’t even know whether the starving man understands what he’s saying, but he’ll try anything for this vampire. This vampire who laid his life down for Zoro’s best friend. Who tried to carve a small place of happiness for a community that rarely got to have such places. Who, at some point, Zoro is certain, could have loved Zoro in a way that Zoro is unused to being loved.

What wouldn’t he give for Sanji? He places his life in Sanji’s hands, even if it isn’t the smartest choice. He doesn’t know how people do it, baring their vulnerabilities and their throats to one another without hesitation, but he figures that he can try for the man beside him.

With the uttermost trust, he murmurs:

“Go on, then. Drink.”

And finally, Sanji bites down.

#

Zoro’s eyes flutter shut.

#

Once upon a time, there was a young boy and a young girl. For the sake of the story, let’s give them names. Let’s call them Zoro and Kuina.

Zoro and Kuina met at a dojo. Kuina was the dojo master’s daughter, and Zoro was a student there. Because of their skill with the blade, they became fast friends, nearly inseparable. The boy was eager to defeat the girl and the girl was happy to have someone to test her mettle against every day.

Kuina’s father, Koshiro, was also a vampire hunter, one with traditional views on gender and vampirism. That’s an important detail.

Both Kuina and Zoro had the same dream, and that dream was simple. Kill Dracule Mihawk, the vampire who hunted his own kind. The vampire vampire-hunter. A legend in his own right. What better way to prove that you were the strongest than to take him down?

“Isn’t he just, like a serial killer?” the boy, Zoro, asked Kuina who just laughed like he’d said the funniest thing. “No! Really! He’s killing his own kind, right? That’s like a person killing other people.”

“Father says that’s what makes him the best, that he knows vampires so well because they’re vampires,” she says. “Now, are you ready for another round?” And he raises his blade and that’s the end of that conversation.

Then Kuina dies.

The night that Kuina is supposed to go on her first hunt with her father, she passes away. The story is that she fell down some stairs, but how could Kuina, the strongest person that Zoro’s ever known be defeated by some stairs?

And even if that were true, then why was her father so quick to pull the cloth over her face? Was it to hide her pallor, whiter than snow, and the black veins that had started to run through her skin?

Or was it to hide the sword wound across her neck?

The lesson Koshiro might have expected Zoro to take away from that moment: Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. The blood on my hands was shed so my daughter may never experience life as a monster.

The lesson that Zoro actually took away: some people are worse than the monsters they kill.

#

The adult body usually contains anywhere from ten to twelve pints of blood.

The human body can lose one pint without side effects. Two can cause shock, and losing fifty percent of your blood results in death.

A fully turned feral will drink at least forty pints of blood before they can’t drink anymore and die. That’s more than a single human body can hold.

It’s a good thing then that Sanji isn’t a fully turned feral. Not yet, at least.

Despite the rumors, it actually only takes a pint and a half for vamps at the brink to regain their humanity. Unfortunately, it can feel like too much, and no one wants to take that risk. Too often, you can’t tell who’s a feral and who isn’t.

You’d have to be an absolute madman to bare your throat to a predator like that and hope they don’t kill you. And yet.

And yet.

#

When Sanji blinks into consciousness, there’s a hand weakly stroking his hair before. It’s a little like emerging from spending too long underwater, and he shakes his head as if to clear his mind. He looks up just as the hand in his hair drops, hitting the floor with a weak thud.

He has half a mind to glance over but he’s instantly hit with a pang of hunger so visceral that he doubles over, unable to feel anything else, and bares his teeth. So, he’s back, but still on the brink of starvation. He follows the scarred palm up toward the face of the poor unfortunate soul that he’s been feeding on.

Zoro looks sick, his free hand covering his eyes, hiding his expression. He removes it when Sanji pulls away from his neck. “Hey,” he mutters.

“Jesus,” Sanji whispers, focusing on anything but the elephant in the room and the hungry lancing pain that throbs like a heartbeat. “Who beat you up? You look like hell.”

“No shit.” Zoro croaks weakly. “Can’t believe you’re asking me that, outta all people.”

Sanji shifts, then hisses, hand pressing to his right ribcage as the empty ache ebbs. It comes away a murky mix of black and dark red, but he brushes it aside to focus on Zoro.

He tries not to wince as a particularly brutal hunger pang strikes through him, eating his insides with its gaping maw. “Are you okay?” When Zoro opens his mouth sluggishly, he tacks on, “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me.”

There’s a bruise on his jaw. Blood oozing from a wound somewhere in his hair. A necklace of purple molten bruises adorns his neck, and Sanji knows that those fingermarks are his own.

Zoro’s jaw clicks shut. Then he rasps: “‘ve been better. You okay?”

Idiot. Sanji’s hardly the one barely cognizant. “Perfect. Why didn’t you—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Zoro cuts in, far too aggressive for an anemic. He coughs, then sighs, a rattling thing. Sanji swears he imagines Zoro’s life escaping his body from that single exhale. Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They fly to tug at his hair, aggravating his cuts and the gaping side injury, and Zoro cracks his eye open. “Oi. Stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Talking’s obviously painful, that much is clear, and Sanji suddenly can’t bring himself to look at Zoro, look at what he’s done, even though Zoro deserves this much at least.

“I’m fine,” Sanji repeats like a ruined record. “Well, I was stabbed, but I think I probably deserved it.”

For the record, he did foresee this happening the moment that Zoro walked through the door. He also predicted that he’d be dead, so he’s one for two right now.

“You cracked my ribs,” Zoro groans. “I think we’re even.” Another hacking cough.

Sanji considers, eyes dropping to the juncture between Zoro’s neck and shoulder. “Did more than that, didn’t I?” Sanji brings a hand up and gently rubs at the puncture wounds as if he’d be able to smudge them away if he just tried. A primal part of him considers slotting his fangs back into the vein, but he’d rather die before feeding on Zoro right now, no matter how much his body wails at him to do so.

Tracing the crusted edge of torn skin, he hears Zoro sucks in a breath between his teeth.

“Hurts, shitface.”

“Shut up and save your breath,” Sanji mumbles, half joking, half serious. He studies Zoro, committing him to memory because if this experience has taught him anything, it is that he wants something beautiful to recall when he’s knocking on Death’s door. Bruised and ruffled, Zoro still remains a sight for sore eyes.

He can hold out another hour, maybe two, before he has to run. What else can he do when his throat is howling for something to slake his thirst? And he refuses for it to be Zoro. Not after this. Not after he's already taken so much from him.

He gently wipes away dust from Zoro’s cheekbones. “You should have just killed me.”

“That would have been murder,” Zoro huffs, ignoring the irony of how their very existences beget murder. Sanji snorts and the tip of Zoro’s mouth quirks upward. It’s easy to forget about the bruises, the way that Sanji’s hands still shake, and the dryness of his mouth.

For now, it’s just him and Zoro.

There’s a lull in the conversation before Zoro snips the atmosphere in half with a question, slurring his words. “You have fun on our second date?”

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Sanji says with far too much fondness.

#

“Hey,” Zoro croaks. “Fuck, I forgot to tell you—”

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” Zoro sounds better, but the strain in each syllable is present, churning the guilt in Sanji’s gut.

Zoro blinks lazily at him from his one eye. “You fucked up your freezer,” he says breathlessly. “Thought you should know.”

“I did what—” The freezer.

The newborn.

There’s blood on Zoro’s swords, that could be entirely from Sanji, and could also be from an innocent boy caught in the crossfire. Swallowing, he gives Zoro a soft shake. Now that he’s mouthing off, Sanji’s a little more certain that the mosshead isn’t going to kick the bucket anytime soon. “The freezer. Zoro, there was a newborn—”

“Luffy,” Zoro grumbles as if just taking a nap instead of recovering from a life-or-death battle. “His name’s Luffy. Nami’s looking after him. ‘e’s one of us.” Zoro says dryly. “Reason why I couldn’t come to see you the next day was because he went missing that night.”

“Shit.” The freezer can wait. Now that some time has passed, he’s thinking a little more clearly, but not by much. It’s only a matter of time before he relapses and he’d rather rob a nun than take another drop from Zoro. “We need to get you to a doctor, right now.” He moves to stand, the rib wound screaming, the empty hunger of his stomach forcing him to hunch over to alleviate some of the pain. “Was the sword to the ribs that necessary?”

“It was stabbing you or my face getting eaten,” Zoro responds patiently. “I like my face.”

Sanji’s eyes flicker over to the restaurant phone. “Give me a sec. I’m going to call some friends to help.”

Usopp has a semi-normal sleep schedule, and Sanji is about to fuck that shit up. The phone rings and rings and rings. For a second, Sanji swears that Usopp isn’t going to pick up until the phone clicks and a muffled, “Hello?” comes through.

“Hey Usopp,” Sanji says, probably sounding like he’s had to fight his way out of a garbage incinerator. “It’s me.”

“Are you calling from the coffee shop? What are you doing there? Have you ever heard of work-life balance? Wait, what are you doing outside of your house?”

“Taking a blade to the side like a champ,” Sanji says, feeling the full force of said blade now that he’s standing and Zoro’s very handsomely rugged face is no longer there as a distraction. He sways on the spot, ready to faceplant into the floor.

Rustling sounds in the background, like someone getting dressed. Sanji thinks he hears Kaya muttering in the background, probably asking where the hell Usopp’s going. “You owe me for this. Like I get paid leave level of owe me.”

“Yep. Also, we have one battered marimo here with a cracked rib, maybe worse. His knee looks weird. Maybe concussed too, now that I think about it. So maybe uh, heads up? And bring blood bags. Lots of blood packs.”

“What the hell happened over there? Nevermind. I don’t want to know. I’m pleading plausible deniability in court. Stay there,” Usopp instructs.

“So,” Sanji says, sinking to take a seat next to Zoro. “Help is on its way.”

Zoro grunts something that resembles, my hero.

“You’re so annoying, you know that?” The meaningless chatter takes his mind off of the desire to bite down into Zoro’s jugular. Hopefully, Usopp got the memo about the blood packs. Maybe he should call him again just to remind him. “Would it kill you to be more grateful?”

“It might.” It’s obvious that Zoro’s trying his best to stay awake for Sanji’s sake.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Sap,” Zoro chides, but he laces his hand in Sanji’s like he did at the observatory, and everything is right with the world.

#

The door swings open, and Sanji blinks. Time really does fly when you’re lying on a wooden floor, battered and bruised, trying not to eat the love of your life. Light shines through the doorway, and Sanji realizes that the sun is rising.

Dawn is here.

Vivi and Usopp emerge into view, flanked by a younger boy with big wide Bambi eyes and a hulking man with shorn hair who wears an open Hawaiian shirt and nothing but speedos. The stench of gunmetal and something oddly medicinal wafts through the air and Sanji scrunches up his face in distaste.

“Ah! Zoro! Zoro’s uh, boyfriend! You look injured! Someone call a doctor!”

“You are the doctor, little dude,” a California surfer dude voice with way too much vocal fry replies.

“Oh! That’s right!” The boy, who looks barely in his twenties, rushes over, kneeling between Zoro and Sanji, zeroing in on both their wounds.

Sanji focuses his attention on his friends, cocking an eyebrow. “When I just called Usopp, I sort of guessed it would just be Usopp coming.”

“Surprise,” Usopp laughs nervously. “We ran those other guys on the way here. I think they're Zoro's friends? I figured other hunters might come so I called Vivi just in case I was going to have to fight them.”

“Uh.” Is there a right way to respond to that? “Thanks? Why isn’t that man wearing pants?”

“I don’t know. Just one of those things you don’t ask about. Seems like a sensitive topic. For example, why do you use ten different hair products?” Usopp helpfully supplies.

Sanji's grateful for how normal he's acting, a stark contrast to Vivi, who appears seconds away from picking up a decorative pillow strewn on the floor and suffocating Zoro with it. Along a similar vein, the pantsless man is studying him like a bug under a microscope, torn between quashing him or pinning him to a corkboard.

It occurs to Sanji just how bad this probably looks, with Zoro bleeding from the neck, dead to the world, and Sanji with the green-haired hunter’s blood dripping down his chin. Just his luck.

“Vivi’s upset,” Usopp whispers to Sanji, Vivi literally a foot away from him. “Like, at you for not eating, but also him—” he juts a thumb at Zoro “—for nearly killing you.”

He doubles over suddenly as his stomach decides to sock him in the gut at the worst moment, that is, in front of two hunters who are debating whether to put him six feet under. Despite knowing that, he can't help but identify that the boy and the man are types A negative and O negative respectfully, and a single bite wouldn’t hurt right?

Vivi kneels down next to him, and pops open a cooler, glaring at Sanji, before handing him a blood pack. She’s an angel, Sanji thinks deliriously. She really is.

“It was self-defense!” Sanji protests weakly once he gets his bearings. He gulps down the bag gratefully. “He was justified.”

“You didn’t do any funny business like turn him, did you?” The Pantsless Wonder asks, burly arms crossed, stone cold expression stamped across his face. The young boy is kneeling over Zoro’s head, examining the area he cracked his head over.

“Franky,” Zoro growls, having stirred from his slumber. “I’m fucking fine.”

“Think you’d know if I turned him,” Sanji snaps at the same time. “But I pinky promise that he didn’t ingest any of my blood. So no. Why? You thinking of killing me?”

He feels Zoro tense beside him.

“Nah, man,” Franky says. “Actually, kinda. If you’d turned Zoro-bro, then yeah, we’d have to off you, but that doesn’t look necessary. Besides, Nami told us about the solid you did Luffy.”

Franky turns to Zoro who glares back at him a little balefully. “So you’re into guys that can kick your ass? Respect, bro.”

Sanji tunes out their conversation and tosses the now emptied pouch aside and reaches for another, which Vivi presses into his hands without hesitation. He winces, still on the receiving end of her silent treatment.

“I’m sorry, Vivi,” he says. She says nothing. “I really am.”

“You better be,” Vivi replies flatly after a couple of heartwrenching seconds. “We were so worried, but you told us that you were fine, and we believed you. I feel stupid, Sanji.”

“I thought I had it under control,” Sanji mutters, feeling like a teenager who’s just disappointed their parents. “It wasn’t meant to get so out of hand.”

“We were literally forcing you to take blood because you looked so bad.” Vivi nearly punctures the next bag she hands him with her nails. “How didn’t I notice?”

“Hey,” Sanji says. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault, okay? Vivi, you and Usopp did everything you could. I was the one who fucked it up. I do that a lot.”

Usopp makes a disapproving noise and Zoro breaks from his conversation with his two fellow hunters to side-eye Sanji. “You don’t,” Vivi says fiercely. “Don’t be self-deprecating when I’m mad at you. You only need one person to be mad at you right now and it’s my turn.”

“My bad. Carry on.”

Vivi nods and does exactly that. “Is this going to happen again? Am I going to be getting a call from Usopp at fucking four in the morning telling me to bring as many blood bags as I can ever again?”

“It won’t,” Sanji swears. Despite her stern tone, there’s nothing but relief for Sanji’s safety swimming in her eyes.

Vivi searches his face. “Alright,” she says, gentler. “I believe you. What do you think Usopp?”

“You suck,” Usopp declares. “Not even in the vampire way. What you did was objectively shitty, but we’re friends so I forgive you. But, um, I for one, would really appreciate it if you try not to get stabbed again.”

“I’ll try, but let me check with the guy who stabbed me first.”

“Is this going to be a thing?” Zoro complains.

Sanji smirks back. “Oh, without a doubt.”

Usopp makes a face at their conversation before taking a step back. “Alright, lovebirds. I’m going to assess the damage in the back. See if there’s anything that I can fix before we have to get the insurance company involved and get bullied by their customer representative.”

Franky lights up. “Oh, shit dude. Mind if I have a look too? I love doing handyman work.” For some reason, this doesn’t surprise Sanji seeing as the man pretty much as a gun melded into his metal prosthetic arm. How he gets through airport security is anyone’s guess.

Sanji watches them vanish into the kitchen. A beat later, Usopp hollers, “What the hell did you do to our fridge, Sanji?” and Sanji doesn’t have the heart to respond that he kicked the stuffing out of it.

Vivi frowns. “That doesn’t sound good,” she notes, striding toward the commotion, stopping suddenly. “You going to be alright here, Sanji?”

The doctor, done with examining Zoro, moves to Sanji’s side. There’s something about this kid that immediately makes Sanji think of world peace and teddy bears. He instantly feels bad that the kid has to get their hands dirty making sure that Sanji isn't all fucked up. “I’m going to take a look at your wounds if that’s alright with you?”

“Sure,” Sanji says, already unable to refuse the kid anything. Besides, it’s not every day he’s getting medical service for free. He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Okay! Great! Can you off your shirt so I can get a better look at your wound?”

“I’m going to see what the fuss is about,” Vivi says as Sanji strips. To Zoro: “And just as a friendly reminder. If anything happens to him, I will lace arsenic in your matcha muffin.” She beams, and Sanji is caught by how angelic she looks.

“Please don’t fuck up, Chopper,” Zoro stresses immediately after she leaves the room.

“Who do you think I am?” Chopper retorts, flipping open his briefcase and removing a syringe. “Vampires have faster healing speeds, but Zoro still cut pretty deep. I’m going to administer a painkiller, then sew you up, alright?”

“Sure thing, doc,” Sanji retorts. The sooner he gets patched up, the sooner that he and Zoro can stop sitting on their asses and start their day.

Now that he thinks about it, Zoro has been awfully quiet. Sanji catches the mosshead staring vehemently forward, the tips of his ears red. "Zoro," he calls softly. The mosshead turns to him, glances down at his bare midsection, then forcefully wrenches his gaze back to Sanji's face.

Well, that explains it.

“You alright there?” he teases.

“Fine,” Zoro replies, too curtly to be misconstrued as casual. “You, um, have abs.”

“Yeah, made them myself,” Sanji snipes, as Chopper prods at his side, which hurts like a motherfucker.

“I’m about to stick a needle in you,” Chopper cuts in, pained. “Which means I’d like you to please stop flirting. Doctor’s orders.”

Chopper stitches Sanji back together and informs him that Zoro’s dislocated his kneecap, cracked not one, but two ribs, and is sustaining a mild concussion. The mosshead seems unhappy about being on rest, especially since that means Chopper won’t let him make his daily coffee shop trip now that the barista's back from nearly kicking the bucket.

“I don’t even know if we’re going to be open tomorrow,” Sanji informs him. “I feel like we’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up.”

Zoro makes a face. “Then—”

“But I can visit you,” Sanji suggests. “My own side’ll be fine in a couple of days—perks of undead healing powers and all. Feel free to say no, but I figure since you’re always heading here that it wouldn’t hurt to turn the tables for once.”

“Yeah,” Zoro replies, the sharpness of his features smoothing into something softer when he looks back. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

I like you.

The sun shines on, despite everything, and Sanji thinks that it’s not so bad—turning your head toward the sun.

#

Two months later, All Blue is up and running again, doing better than ever before. Business is booming with the vigor of a Michael Bay movie, especially now that the entire story has been rehashed to their regulars, who treat it like a particularly renowned drama-romance, albeit with considerably more investment in the characters.

Luffy, who’s made a full recovery, is scarfing down pastry after pastry, and after the next one, Sanji vows to cut him off.

That’s what he said about the one before that. And the one before that. The bouncing grinning boy has made an impression on him.

(“He’s pulled you in, huh?” Zoro observed as Sanji let Luffy have his fourth bear claw. "He and Chopper got you good."

“I have no idea what you mean.” Sanji spluttered. “What, don’t look at me like that. I can’t let a guy have a bear claw without being accused of going soft?”

“Relax,” Zoro sighed. “Luffy’s just that kind of person. Could charm the pants off a particularly grumpy panther. Actually, he's done something close. Remind me never to introduce you Law.”)

The blood supply chain has begun easing up, prices plummeting, and vampires across the globe relax, just a little bit.

“I can’t believe you’ve been holding this place out on me,” Nami tells Zoro who sighs, doing some shit on his computer. Portfolio management or whatever. “I’m going to sit at the bar. Also, why is everyone here so hot?”

“Please don’t say that Twilight got it right,” Usopp begs.

“I was thinking more Vampire Diaries?” The entire All Blue staff plus some patrons groan in unison.

It turns out that their insurance did cover some of the fridge damage, but not all of it. As it stands today, they have a functional fridge with a black crater stamped on the door. So, that’s fun. (Zoro offered to pay; Sanji offered to give him another concussion with the tip jar. That had ended that conversation.)

A week after Sanji had visited Zoro, who stayed in bed for approximately three days before threatening arson if he had to stay for a fourth, he’d met Nami. “I promised that I’d introduce you. So curly, witch. Witch, curly. Introduction over. Now—”

Nami had scanned him up and down consideringly. “You look a lot better when you aren’t going mad.” she mused. “Good fashion taste. Bathes daily. Decent cologne. Fantastic figure. Not bad. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard when you decided to settle for Zoro?”

“Oi.”

“Must be a side effect of inhaling coffee fumes on the daily.” Sanji grinned. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.”

“We’ve been acquainted,” Nami had supplied helpfully. “You tried to murder me while I was grabbing Luffy from your freezer. By the way, I know you’re probably tired of hearing about it, but thanks for helping him out.”

“Of course! It was no problem. If I had known such a wonderful lady as yourself had a vested interest in taking care of newborns, I would have—”

“Cool it, dart brows” Zoro muttered. “The witch doesn’t need you kissing her ass.”

“Fuck you, Zoro,” Nami snapped, anger firing up like a street racer. Hell hath no fury and all that. “I swear to god. I’d just gotten my nails done, and if I had to dig your grave or cremate you, they would’ve gotten chipped. You know what that means? It means I’d revive you to murder you a second time.”

“Feeling the love here,” Zoro grumbled.

“I’m sorry about the whole feral thing, though,” Sanji said before Zoro could sustain another injury from his own work partner. Nami’s words, particularly you tried to murder me don’t exactly flatter a man. “Come by for a coffee on the house sometime.”

“Make it three, and it’s a deal.”

This brings them all to now, with Nami collecting on order number one: a large latte with five shots of expresso.

Vivi moves to set down her order and Nami swivels her entire body toward her. Sanji blinks, then rubs his eyes as her entire demeanor changes from I am seconds from kicking your ass to I’d love to have your number…just kidding…haha…unless?

“Uh. Hi! I’m. I’m Nami. Which you probably heard earlier. Haha. You know when I was talking to my friend. Um, that’s not important, you’re important. I mean I don’t think I got your name. You are?”

“Oh my god,” Zoro groans. “Give me another pair of cracked ribs and dislocated knee any day. Anything’s better than watching the witch flirt.”

Zoro is sitting on his designated spot in the corner of the store, away from the hubbub but closest to the register, where he can chat with Sanji. Really, it can’t be productive, but Zoro insists that it helps clears his mind. Ever since they've slapped a label on their relationship a week after the Incident, Zoro's been abusing the shit out of his boyfriend privileges. Sanji hasn’t seen him so much as touch his keyboard since he got here.

(There'd been a talk, of course. You can't start a relationship coming off a Youtube-worthy death battle. There are rules for this, a proper way to transition from nearly exsanguinating your love interest to jumping into a healthy guilt-free relationship. Turns out, it involves a lot of heart-to-hearts that make both him and Zoro wish that they'd drowned themselves in their coffees.)

Sanji turns his attention back to Nami's endeavors. Vivi twirls her hair, leaning in closer. Clearly, something’s working here.

“Please," he says to Zoro. "I have it on Usopp’s account we were just as bad.”

“You were,” Usopp calls. “Also the courting period was way longer. Will they, won’t they? The betting pool was huge! I personally think that you two should have waited till a holiday, like Christmas Eve to get together, but win-some lose-some, I guess.”

“Did you pack your bags?” Zoro asks, ignoring Usopp who makes an insulted noise but returns back to the fruit refresher he was making. “We leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” Sanji says, punching in an order and whipping up an iced coffee. “I think I’ve got everything. Water bottle. Sleeping bag. I made a checklist earlier. Vivi and Usopp claim they're able to hold down the place by themselves for a weekend, so that's covered. Hey, did you check the weather for Joshua Tree?”

“Obviously. What’s the point of going to see a meteor shower if the skies are overcast?”

“And the verdict?”

“Clear skies.”

Sanji smiles, only to see it reflected back on Zoro’s own lips. And he thinks, this is good.

This is not West Side Story or the Little Prince or one of the million stories already out there. This is a story of their own, crafted by no one but themselves. They, who make their own choices and dictate their own ending.

And in this ending, Sanji is happy.