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Sanji has never cared for winter.
It’s a harsh season, and it reminds him of the North. Summer is what reminds him of home—of Zeff, of the Baratie, of the East Blue in general. Winter was kinder in the East Blue, and he could never distinguish if it was the time of year itself, or the people he was with. Still, it wasn’t easier.
The Grand Line is harsh, and punishes the weak, but winter islands aren’t common, and Sanji is grateful for that. Drum Island nearly killed him, literally. Running from the Navy and fighting against the World Government is no walk in the park, but at least it’s mostly summer.
Sanji doesn’t feel quite like himself in the winter.
He can see himself, is the thing. There are bits and pieces that poke through, but it’s not all him. It’s like staring in a fractured mirror. He knows, intellectually, that the person staring back at him is himself, but his face is splintered and his shape is distorted and his body is wrong.
Sanji hates feeling like his body is wrong, and it’s becoming an all too common occurrence. He doesn’t think that he felt this way before. His past in relation to himself only gets blurrier as time goes by.
It’s okay to cry, you know, Iva had told him. It’s a complicated matter. Not everyone goes through it. It’s okay to be frustrated, and confused, and angry, but never at yourself, darling. Don’t be angry at yourself.
(Sanji is trying to listen to the advice.)
He thinks that winter is easier on the Sunny, with his friends. It’s comforting to hear Nami call out the change in climate, and have Usopp grab everyone’s jackets below deck. It’s endearing to watch Chopper go around the ship, fussing over everyone, and watch the snow pile up on a sleeping Zoro. He feels safe, and he takes great pleasure in preparing a hot meal for everyone.
Sometimes, they’ll reach a winter island, and it’ll be bone-chilling cold, and yet not cold enough to have water freeze, and it’ll rain, and rain, and rain. Sanji hates that kind of winter the worst.
Zoro understands the most, Sanji thinks. Zoro understands what it’s like to not see himself in the mirror. They’ve talked about it—Sanji rambling over a mug of whiskey, and Zoro nodding along, only offering commentary when he knows Sanji is done, or curled up in the hammocks, in hushed voices so to not wake the others. Zoro understands the most, but Zoro doesn’t understand all of it.
Sanji half-wishes he had never been taken to Momoiro Island. Maybe then he would still be normal— normality is relative, darling, and is frankly another word for boring, Iva says in his head. It makes Sanji snort. Iva’s seen some shit, and Iva knows better than anyone that normal is another word for safe.
Sanji isn’t sure what normal means relative to the Strawhats.
Sanji is trying to figure out what normal means to himself.
There are small things Sanji holds onto, harmless things, barely noticeable things. A little nail polish. A slightly higher heel in his shoe. Letting his hair grow minimally longer. They work like a safety blanket to him, and they take away the pit in his stomach he gets sometimes when he looks in the mirror. They make his image look a little less fractured.
He writes to Iva, when the urge overtakes him. He doesn’t send all the letters. They’re full of questions like, How were you sure? How did you know it wasn’t a mistake? Does the anxiety ever go away? How did you ever become so confident? How do you stop caring what other people think?
He writes to Zeff, too, and he doesn’t send any of those. Those are full of statements without tact. Shitty old man, my bounty isn’t the only thing that’s changed since you last saw me. Shitty old man, I’m having a gender crisis, and thought you should know. Shitty old man, I’m still your son, but I’m something else, too.
Sanji spends more time fawning over Robin and Nami, desperately trying to silently communicate with them that he’s different. He can’t bring himself to say anything out loud.
He spars with Zoro, and tries to prove that he’s different, but he’s the same. He doesn’t want anything to change on the ship.
He thinks Luffy knows. He has no idea how Luffy knows, but it’s the same way Luffy knows about him and Zoro, and how Luffy knew about Franky and Robin, and how Luffy can detect genuine unhappiness on the crew like he can find meat. It’s not a bad trait for a captain to have. It doesn’t make it easier to talk to him.
Things come crashing down on an arbitrary day, on an arbitrary island. It’s a winter island, and it’s sleeting, not snowing. Sanji thinks the snow is gorgeous—they never got much on the Baratie, and it still fascinates him—so he’s already pissed that the one good thing about winter islands has been taken from him. He’s hungry, which stresses him out, and when he’s stressed he finds he can’t eat, which makes him even hungrier and more stressed. All in all, it’s a recipe for disaster.
It’s Franky that sets him over the edge.
“Hey, bro, could you grab the tools I left on the counter?” Franky asks, and something inside Sanji snaps.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, irritation seeping into his voice.
“Huh?” Franky asks.
“I’m not—argh!” Sanji growls, and stalks into the kitchen. Franky follows him in.
“Are you okay, bro?” he asks, concerned.
“Don’t call me that!” Sanji repeats. He doesn’t know why he’s so angry. It’s never been a problem before. He doesn’t mind the term, not usually. But it’s cold and dark and he’s hungry and he’s just so, so tired of not being honest. “I’m not your bro, I’m not your man, that’s not me! Don’t fucking call me that!”
Franky takes a step back. “Do you want to, uh, talk about this? Whatever this is?”
Sanji grabs the tools from the counter and tosses them at Franky. “No! I don’t know!”
(For all of his growth in the past two years, he’s just as emotionally volatile as before, and maybe even better at hiding things.)
Franky sends Robin to talk to him, because Franky is a good man, and a smart one at that. Robin sits at the counter and just looks at Sanji.
“Yes, dear?” Sanji eventually asks.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asks.
The same thing that snapped inside Sanji earlier crumples in upon itself. He shakes his head and turns toward the sink.
“I’ll take that as a no, then?” Robin confirms.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Sanji says.
“It’s the job of the crew to take care of each other,” Robin says firmly. “We’re a family. We don’t stop worrying about each other just because we’re told not to.” She folds her arms together. “Now, what’s wrong?”
What Sanji tries to say is, “Nothing.”
What comes out of his mouth is, “Me.”
Robin’s perfectly composed face cracks, and Sanji can see the deep sadness underneath. “What?”
“I’m not—” Sanji begins, biting the inside of his cheek. “I hate winter islands.”
With that, it’s like a dam has burst, and Sanji wipes at his eyes to try to stop the tears as fast as they’re flowing. “I’m not—it’s not—I feel terrible—and nothing feels right—and I’m not me—I hate it, I want to go back to how I was before—and I’m hungry—and I hate winter islands—”
Robin moves quickly, if not awkwardly, around the counter, and hesitantly puts her arms around Sanji. It’s a stiff gesture—Robin has never been the most maternal, but this seems to be only thing she can think of to do in the moment. It’s enough for Sanji. It reminds him of his own mother.
“You should eat, probably,” she says, and it startles a laugh out of Sanji.
“Yeah, probably,” he says.
Robin takes her oh-so-awkward arms off of Sanji and steps back, looking at him. “Is this…feeling wrong…is it…new?” She navigates through the sentence like it’s a ship in the shallows.
“Yes? No?” Sanji answers. “I don’t know.”
“Ah,” Robin says, in a way that says, “Well, that cleared nothing up.” She clears her throat. “Is there anything you would like for us, as your crewmates, to change?”
Sanji shrugs. His eyes have dried by this point, but he’s still feeling vulnerable.
“Like, perhaps, Franky’s use of ‘bro?’” she suggests. “He said you didn’t like that very much.”
Sanji shrugs once more. “I think that was an overreaction.”
Robin purses her lips. “I think you should speak to Luffy about this. I’m not…this is a crew issue. It shouldn’t be a secret. We shouldn’t be hurting you.”
“You’re not hurting me,” Sanji protests.
“Not all hurt is big,” Robin says. “But it’s still hurt, isn’t it?”
(And you don’t deserve to get hurt, Iva whispers in Sanji’s head.)
Luffy doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He sits on the figurehead as Sanji stammers through a brief, surface level explanation, and grins when Sanji has finished.
“I’m glad you told me,” he says. “I knew something was different. Didn’t know what, though.”
“Yeah,” Sanji says, blowing out smoke. “It’s pretty fucking different, though.”
“Not that different,” Luffy says, cocking his head. “You still cook yummy food. You still wear super fancy clothes. You’re still strong. You’re still Sanji.” He pauses, and blinks. “You are still Sanji, right?”
Sanji laughs. “Yeah. I’m still Sanji.”
“Does Zoro know?” Luffy asks.
Sanji stiffens. “No.”
“Oh,” Luffy says. “Are you going to tell him?”
Sanji takes a long drag of his cigarette. “I should, shouldn’t I.” It’s not a question.
“Not if you don’t want to,” Luffy says simply.
“I think—” Sanji starts, then breaks off. “I think I do want to.”
“Okay,” Luffy says, picking his nose. “What about your dad?”
“What about the old man?” Sanji asks, and his heart thuds.
“Does he know?” Luffy asks.
“Should he?” Sanji snaps back.
“Well,” Luffy starts. “You know he’d still love you, right?”
That’s like a knife to Sanji’s heart, and he takes a deep breath.
“How do you know?” Sanji asks. “How can you be sure?”
“Because he’s your dad. He loves you,” Luffy says.
(There’s no certainty to anything, candy boy, Iva had said. But the people who love you, who really love you, will continue to love you, no matter what.)
Sanji tells Zoro, and Luffy tells everyone else. It’s not quite as easy as it was to talk with Luffy. Zoro listens, and when Sanji’s done, he nods.
“I’m still gay,” he says, and Sanji wants to smack himself. He instead tightens his grip on his arms.
“No shit, dumbass,” Sanji growls. “This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
“I guess,” Zoro says.
“Fuck off,” Sanji says. “It’s my gender identity, you’re just along for the ride.”
“If it’s yours, why’d it take so long to explain?” Zoro asks, but it’s not said in a cruel way.
“Fuck off,” Sanji groans. Zoro bumps his shoulder against Sanji’s.
“Thanks for telling me, really,” Zoro says quietly. “It took guts.”
Sanji leans against him. “Thanks for...understanding. Not making it weird.”
“Yeah, I love you too, dart brow,” Zoro says. Sanji elbows him in the side. “It’s gender neutral! It’s gender neutral!”
Sanji rolls his eyes, and kisses Zoro on the cheek.
(It gets easier. I promise, Iva had said.
How?
I—can’t say. It differs, from person to person. I don’t know how it will be for you. But it will get easier.)
Sanji still hates the winter.
(But it has gotten easier.)