To Be Warm in the Cold - okiedokeTM (madelinescribbles) (2024)

Chapter 1: Visiting Mother

Chapter Text

Sanji is the only quintuplet born crying. This is concerning, but immediately overshadowed by Go, who emerges with ambiguous genitalia.

This does not please Judge Vinsmoke, who realizes his eugenic experiment might only have a 60% success rate. Every child is immediately shipped off for testing, just in case. Sora Vinsmoke is not permitted to hold her children.

The results confirm what anyone could have guessed. The genetic manipulation designed to stunt Sanji’s amygdala and limbic cortex didn’t take. Go has three sex chromosomes.

Judge has to decide what the scientists should do with the damaged goods. He listens to the results, the recommendations, and decides to gamble. If he’s lucky, Sanji’s limbic system may arrest at a young age, and he’ll lose his emotions naturally. With enough estrogen boosters, Go may grow into a daughter, Goju.

Judge’s verdict: Sanji and Go will be allowed to grow up intact - for now. But the contingencies of lobotomy and genital mutilation respectively are always on the table, in case there’s no improvement.

While the three perfect brothers treat both Sanji and Go like punching bags, Sanji is clearly their favorite toy. Go understands that they are an objective failure, and that their brothers have a right to beat them for this, so they take their abuse without fuss. They don’t cry, beg, run, or bruise like Sanji does. Sanji’s reactions are much more unpredictable, and therefore more interesting.

Sanji is useful when the brothers want a hunt, or the satisfaction of leaving a lasting mark. Go is useful when they want to take out their aggression on something convenient, or unbreakable.

It’s certainly not pleasant. Judge kept all his kids’ pain receptors intact, so that they could accurately assess damage in combat, which means Go feels every blow. But they can mend the injuries overnight, anyway, even if their skin is often as dented as Sanji is colorfully bruised.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Sanji asks one evening. Dinner has just ended. Go was beaten twice today, mostly the face and ribs. Privately, they’re grateful Yonji didn’t kick their crotch this time. That seems to be a favorite tactic for him, and while Go doubts it’s actually inhibiting their genital development in any way, they can’t help the tiniest inkling of relief when that area is left alone. They want to earn their feminine suffix as quickly as possible, so that the beatings stop.

“There’s no point.”

“But it hurts!” Sanji insists.

“Yeah,” Go agrees, affectless.

“So why not fight back? You’re strong!”

“I’m only as strong as them. I’d lose as soon as they gang up on me. It’s more economic to just take it.” Go shrugs.

Sanji looks positively distressed. The neutral line of Go’s mouth curves down ever so slightly. They don’t understand Sanji’s emotions. They flare up constantly, usually when it’s most inconvenient for him; when he’s teased, during beatings, et cetera. Go doesn’t understand why he always lets them show all over his face. Reiju has emotions too, but she doesn’t bother showing them unless they’re useful.

“But it hurts!” Sanji says again, voice warbling.

“...Yeah. We already agreed on that.”

Sanji doesn’t seem to grasp that the pain is as irrelevant as it is deserved.

“Why not at least run away from them?” He asks, “You’re fast enough.”

“I can’t run forever. It’d just waste time and energy to delay. The only way to stop the beatings is to stop being flawed.” Hopefully that comes sooner, rather than later. Until then, all they can do is wait.

Sanji’s forehead wrinkles.

“Mom… mom told me that she doesn’t think I’m flawed,” he whispers.

Go considers this.

“But that doesn’t stop the beatings,” they point out, pragmatically, “The people with power over us say that we’re flawed, and their truth is the only one that holds weight. Even if mom was objectively correct, she cannot stop them, so her sentiment is irrelevant.”

Tears well up in Sanji’s eyes. Go doesn’t even know what they said to trigger him, they just told the truth.

“It’s not irrelevant to me,” Sanji says wetly, balling his fists. “I love mom.”

Go tilts their head. Studies Sanji for a moment.

Unlike their brothers, Go never really had much interest in Sanji; beating him isn’t appealing when your fellow assailants are just as likely to turn on you, and Go knows pain intimately enough that seeing it on someone else is rather boring. But for the first time, talking circles with him in the hallway, they find Sanji’s emotions interesting.

“What’s that like?” They ask.

Sanji sniffles, confused.

“Wh- what’s what like?”

“Love,” Go says. “You apparently feel it strongly enough to ignore reason. What’s it like?”

“Um,” Sanji says eloquently, “I dunno? I just… love her… and she says she loves me, too.”

He blushes furiously, looking at his shoes.

“That’s it?” Go can’t feel disappointment, but the explanation is objectively anticlimactic.

“Well- no!” Sanji waves his hands in front of him, frantically, “It’s like… she makes me happy, and warm, even when I’m sad, and cold.”

Go considers this rather oxymoronic statement. Half of it is about emotions, which they don’t feel, and the other half is accomplished just as effectively with a hot water bottle.

Sanji apparently senses their disinterest.

“Urgh! I’m not explaining it good!” Sanji sags in defeat. “Mom would do it much better.”

He suddenly jolts up straight, eyes alight.

“Go, you should come with me to see mom tomorrow! She could explain it!”

His eyes are big, round, and earnest. There’s so much emotion in them that Go’s instinct is to say “no” out of self-preservation. But they have a few unstructured hours tomorrow, and, objectively, there’s no reason not to go. It’s something to do, at the very least, even if the walk is a bit long.

“...Alright,” Go shrugs.

Their brother’s face splits into a huge smile. Go has no idea what to do with it, so they just stand up and head to bed.

Sanji floats like a butterfly during the walk across the snail sectors to mother’s ward. He swings a small parcel joyously as he dances.

“-added some cucumber, too, for texture,” Sanji is saying, because Go hasn’t bothered to stop him. “And the chefs even let me use the oven! So they’re baked! They got kinda soupy and burnt, but I didn’t have time to try again and I promised I’d bring something.”

“Sure.”

Go has no idea how a cookie can be both soupy and burnt, but they’ve decided not to think about it.

“You, um, you can try one too, if you want,” Sanji says. “I made them for mom but she’s really nice so she’ll let you have one. If you want.”

“I don’t want one. They sound gross.”

“...oh.” Sanji stops floating. Go’s not sure why. But they didn’t really get why he spent the energy walking like that in the first place, either, so they ignore it.

They trek in silence for another minute, before Sanji speaks again.

“Do you think mom will like them?” Sanji asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Go says honestly. “Taste is subjective, though they sound objectively inedible.”

Sanji frowns, worrying the parcel’s string between his fingers.

“It won’t…” he trails off, glancing worriedly in the direction of the ward, “It wouldn’t make her more sick, right?”

“It might induce vomiting,” Go shrugs, “But I highly doubt it’ll accelerate endometrial cancer.”

Sanji nods to himself, exhaling with relief.

“Okay, good. Thanks, Go.”

“Sure.”

They have no idea why Sanji is thanking them, but he clearly doesn’t understand his own emotions either, so asking would be worthless.

“Sanji!” Sora calls delightedly as he whirlwinds into the room. “My sweet boy,” she coos, pulling him into a hug.

Go steps through the doorway after him, subdued. Confusion flashes on their mother’s face for less than a millisecond before it gives way to pure, unadulterated joy.

The transition is so fast and genuine that it bewilders them. Sanji’s emotions are unwieldy, Judge’s and Reiju’s are tightly controlled, but Sora’s are neither. She shows emotion openly and comfortably. It’s alien.

“Goju!” Their mom calls warmly, pleasantly surprised. “My baby girl, come here.”

Go blinks, even more off-kilter now.

“It’s still just Go, ma’am. I haven’t been fixed yet.”

Sora frowns, looking heartbroken.

“I don’t believe in that nonsense,” she says firmly. Go really isn’t sure what that has to do with it. “Do you want to be Goju?”

It’s a bizarre question. Go doesn’t really care what they’re called. They just want to stop being a failure - to stop the beatings - and they’ll be called Goju when that happens. The name is a side effect more than anything. Being ‘Goju’ without earning it is simply incorrect.

“I’m just Go,” They say, because they don’t know what they want, but that statement is true.

Sora tilts her head, studying them. Then she nods, apparently satisfied.

“Alright then, Go, please come give your mom a hug.”

Sanji, who has been watching their exchange in her lap with mild confusion, breaks into a huge smile and motions for Go to join him.

Go thinks that their brothers and father would probably beat the both of them for such blatant affection, but neither of them are here, so there’s no reason to protest. They comply, vaulting easily onto the bed.

“I’m so happy to have my children visit me,” Mom gushes, squeezing them both. “Have you two been getting along?”

“Yeah!” Sanji chirps, nodding eagerly, “Go is the best. They’ve never hit me, even when the others do it.”

Go is surprised to realize that’s true. It’s not that they never would, they’ve just never had any inclination or reason. They’re not as sensitive to boredom or offense as their brothers. Still, it’s a bit surprising. Even Reiju has laid a hand against him once or twice, at Father’s behest. But Father finds Go revolting, so it’s not like he’d ever ask anything of them.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Sora says, grip tightening. “And what about you, Go?”

“Sanji has never hit me either,” They confirm, even though it’s probably obvious. If Go is disinterested in causing pain, Sanji is downright terrified at the prospect.

“Good,” she praises. “I’m proud of you both. It takes a lot of strength to choose kindness, you know.”

Go frowns slightly. They’ve certainly never chosen kindness. Or cruelty, for that matter. Go doesn’t really think in those terms. And choice is rarely something they have access to.

“Oh, Sanji, what do you have there?” Mom asks, peering at the parcel in his hands.

“Oh, yeah! I made cookies!” He says, unpacking them. Halfway through he stills, suddenly. “Um, Go says they’re probably inedible, though…”

“Nonsense!” Sora declares. “My son made me cookies, I want to taste them. I bet they’re delicious!”

Sanji giggles and continues unpacking. The paper falls away to a box of cookies that look more like charred puddles of vomit than anything a sane person would call “delicious.” But their mom’s smile doesn’t waver. In fact, there’s a twinkle in her eye.

And then she does something that burns a deep respect for her into Go’s very bones.

She takes a huge bite of a cookie, chews, and swallows it, all with a positively adoring expression.

“Sanji, these are delicious!” She declares, popping the rest into her mouth and reaching for another.

Go’s jaw is on the floor. They can smell it from here, those things are rancid. She might have to drink battery acid just to get the taste out before next week. But she reaches for another, happy as a clam.

Sanji, meanwhile, is buzzing.

“Really?” He asks, watching her eat.

“Really! I can tell you put a lot of thought into them.”

“I did!” Sanji nods, “I started with a basic chocolate chip recipe, but I wanted to make it special so I added some truffle oil, and then-”

He rambles on about the truly horrific process of creating something that Germa’s enhanced interrogation division could only dream of. And all the while, their mom chugs away at the cookies, until the box is empty, and she licks her fingers clean. Only someone who willingly drank poison and carried genetically modified quintuplets to term could possibly have this kind of constitution.

She’s a badass.

“That’s wonderful, Sanji,” She coos, as their brother finishes his story. “You’re getting better with every dish! Will you bring me something next time, too?”

“Of course!” Sanji agrees. “I want to try Beef Wellington, next!l”

Go gets nauseous just thinking about how that’ll turn out.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Sora says earnestly. Sanji smiles radiantly.

“What about you, Go?” Their mom turns to them, “Anything special you’ve been up to?”

“No.”

When they’re not getting their ass kicked, they train and study, mostly. Aside from Sanji’s cooking and Reiju’s makeup, none of the Vinsmoke children have hobbies. Unless beating the snot out of the failures counts.

Sora hums. “Well, has anything from your classes sparked your interest, lately?”

“No.”

Schoolwork is so easy it’s boring, sometimes. They can tell it’s more a formality than anything, since the true purpose of the Vinsmoke children is to be superhuman weapons. Judge thinks it’d be shameful for the royal family to be illiterate or ignorant of their country’s glorious history, but he’s not going out of his way to challenge them intellectually.

“Oh! Mom! Mom!” Sanji interjects. “Go asked me a question last night and I was answering it bad but I knew you’d explain it super good so I brought them here to ask you. They want to know about love!”

Sora’s eyes twinkle. “Is that so?” She asks, directed at Go.

“Yes,” Go dips their head. “Sanji mentioned it, and I was curious. I don’t have emotions, so I asked for a description. But his articulation and vocabulary are lacking.”

Sanji pouts. Mom places a gentle hand on his head and pets, soothingly.

“What did you say, Sanji?” She asks.

“Um…” Sanji blushes, eyes downcast. “I said that love makes you feel happy and warm, even when you’re sad and cold.”

Sora smiles and pulls him into a hug. “That’s such a beautiful way to describe it,” She praises. His chest puffs up with pride.

“I can try to explain it further,” she says, turning to Go. “Love as a feeling is hard to pin down, I think because it encompasses a lot of emotions over time. And those emotions vary from person to person.” She taps her finger to her chin, pondering. “If emotions are hard to grasp, perhaps I can explain it in terms of actions. True love, to me, is taking care of someone. When they ask, of course, but especially when they don’t.”

Go nods, slowly. They’re following so far.

“Thinking of them often, prioritizing their safety and happiness, even if it’s difficult or comes at expense to yourself. That’s love.”

That makes sense. Sanji clearly thinks about their mom constantly, and vice versa. And they’re certainly eager to make each other happy. Even Reiju, who is pragmatic to a fault, occasionally sneaks Sanji sympathetic looks or bandages.

It colors logic into behavior that Go previously considered illogical. Emotions are still a black box to them, but this larger feeling - love - apparently has trends. Many of the things Sanji (and Reiju, to a lesser extent) does can be explained, even justified, by love.

“I see,” Go says. “Thank you for explaining it to me.”

“You’re very welcome,” Sora smiles, giving their hand a pat. “Anything you want to know, I’m always happy to explain.”

Go inclines their head in gratitude. They didn’t have any questions beyond the love thing.

The rest of the visit is uneventful. Sanji and their mom chat and smile. Go listens disinterestedly, only speaking when addressed directly. But as the sun crawls across the sky, one of the nurses knocks gently on the door.

“My apologies, your highness, my prince, and my princeps,” she bows to each of them in turn. “But I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. The queen needs to rest.”

Sanji and Sora pout and give a token protest before finally agreeing. They say their heartfelt goodbyes and hugs.

“I love you, my sweet boy,” Sora whispers into his hair.

“I love you too, Mom,” Sanji says into her shoulder.

They break apart, and he slides reluctantly off the bed. Go moves to follow, when they’re pulled into a hug as well.

“And I love you, my darling Go,” Mom murmurs.

Go is stiff with surprise, but allows themselves to relax when they recognize it as an embrace.

“I don’t think I’m capable of love, but I appreciate the sentiment,” they reply.

Mom pulls out of the hug and smiles down at them, eyes glossy with tears.

“I think you’re capable of anything you set your mind to, Go,” she says, with a kiss to their forehead.

It’s a sweet thought. But if that were true, Go would have stopped being a failure ages ago. So they extricate themselves from her lap with a polite nod and take their leave.

Go never deigns to visit their mom again before she dies a few months later. They don’t have any reaction at the news, nor her funeral.

Sanji is distraught, a mess of emotions. It only eggs their brothers on, and exacerbates Judge’s distaste for him. Between the crying and the lack of developing powers, Go can see the writing on the wall: Sanji’s failures won’t be tolerated much longer. The only question is whether Judge plans to put him under the knife in a last-ditch effort or simply get rid of him altogether.

Privately, Go pockets some estrogen packets from the lab and takes an extra dose every other day. It’s ineffective.

Their intersexuality disgusts Judge, but at the very least it’s not a public failure, like Sanji’s shortcomings. They can only hope it’s enough to avoid the same fate.

Chapter 2: Locked Up

Chapter Text

When they turn seven, Judge is no longer satisfied with the pathetic efforts of estrogen. Go’s body was created to be resilient and immutable, so in order to truly change it, he tries something stronger.

Whatever is in the new pills, it works. Slowly, surely, over the course of months, their genitalia morphs, starting to look more and more like the diagrams. But there are side effects.

The pills suppress Go’s genetic enhancements for the transition. Insignificantly at first, then more visibly as time goes on. They start to fall behind in foot races. Lose fights. Even bruise when they dent. They’re nowhere near as weak as Sanji, but they can no longer keep pace with their brothers. For the first time since they were born, their failure can’t be hidden by clothes. The frequency and brutality of beatings increases.

When they start to bruise instead of dent, Judge is not pleased. He decides a freak is better than a weakling. After only three months, Go stops getting the doses.

But the damage is done.

At five months, it’s clear that they are permanently weaker than their brothers. Their speed, strength, and healing ability improve with time, but never quite return to baseline. The exoskeleton doesn’t grow back at all.

At seven months, their brothers’ usual dose of abuse breaks a rib, and Go thinks the crack sounds a lot like the last nail in the coffin.

Within the week, Go and Sanji are declared dead, and thrown into a cell with matching iron helmets. Go also gets a cage digging into their pelvis that looks, frankly, like a metal diaper.

Because Go is not as weak as Sanji, they're shackled to the far wall by the codpiece for security, with just enough slack to stand and sit. They’re only freed three times a day - during meals - to relieve themselves. Through the bars, guards unlock the mouth plate on Sanji’s helmet, and hand him the key to Go’s own mouth plate and pelvic cage.

Sanji, unspeakably kind, never makes a single comment about Go being shamefully naked from the waist-down for every meal. Their only other option is to eat with the codpiece on, which they can’t bring themselves to do.

Go, who doesn’t have emotions to despair and hope like Sanji, falls into a prolonged dissociative state. Sometimes Sanji talks to them, and they might even respond, but Go hardly registers the words. It’s like hearing their own conversations from underwater. They eat, sleep, and take their brothers’ abuse with minimal cognizance.

At one point, a few weeks or perhaps even months into imprisonment, Go manages to surface.

“Go? Go, did you hear me?” Sanji is saying.

Go blinks rapidly, and returns to their body. Sanji’s face is close, his hand resting gently on their shoulder.

“I asked if you would want my shirt,” Sanji says, “Next time I can unlock you. We can tie it l-like underwear so it’s not… so the metal isn’t directly on your skin.”

It takes Go an embarrassingly long time to process what he’s saying.

“Why?” They rasp. “It doesn’t benefit you.”

They’re not sure why they point it out. It would have been smarter to just accept it.

But Sanji is Sanji, and he doesn’t retract the offer.

“It would help you,” Sanji says, already peeling the shirt off, “So I wanna.”

He strategically tears and ties it until it could reasonably serve as underwear, finishing up just as the guards come.

He unlocks them as usual, and they relieve themselves before walking over to the little table where they take meals. Gingerly, they take the makeshift underwear from Sanji and slip it on. For the first time since they were thrown in here, the biting cold below their waste eases.

Unbidden, Sanji’s words from a very long time ago are dredged up from their memory.

“Love makes you feel happy and warm, even when you’re sad and cold.”

Go sits down, a barrier between their flesh and the chilly stone floor for the first time in who knows how long, and feels dull pain in their skull, wetness rolling down their cheeks. An odd pressure in their chest.

Sanji stares at them with his face twisted up in concern, but doesn’t say anything. Towards the end of the meal, he puts a hand on top of theirs, and Go notes that it’s warm.

Go is conscious more often, after that. When Sanji talks, they listen. They even respond with more than one word, sometimes.

It’s Sanji’s idea to ask the guards for a few items, and they encourage it by not pointing out all the ways the soldiers might punish him if they take offense. Go gets the sense that his potential happiness from the request being met would outweigh the potential hurt from an extra beating.

Go’s getting good at that, calculating Sanji’s emotions. As a result, his actions seem far less random these days. It’s pretty useful.

To their mild surprise, the guards acquiesce. They bring books, and extra clothing. Sanji reads about cooking and fairy tales, Go reads about human psychology. Sanji wears a new shirt, and Go wears proper underwear and pants, under the codpiece.

Existence becomes… tolerable. Enough so that Go rarely dissociates in favor of keeping Sanji company. Based on their reading, children of Sanji's age need frequent interaction with adults and peers for proper development. The guards do not speak beyond “yes” or “no,” so Go will have to do.

Around six months into captivity, Sanji is granted an oven and some ingredients. He cooks every day. After two weeks of it, he even makes a cake that looks edible. Go agrees to try it during dinner.

“It’s too sweet. There are clumps of unsifted flour and sugar in it,” Go informs him. Sanji’s eager grin dissipates into disappointment, and thanks to the psychology books, Go now understands why. The comment made him sad. Children crave praise and positive reinforcement.

“But I could swallow it,” Go adds. “It’s edible.”

Sanji’s face lights up like a bonfire. Warm.

He lunges forward and engulfs them in a hug. Children need physical affection, Go remembers. They pat him on the back, awkwardly.

Seeing the oven really pisses their brothers off. Or, at least inspires them to take more drastic action. Go knows they don’t actually feel much.

“You baking cakes, puss*?” Yonji asks Sanji with a kick to the face. He’s really stupid. Anyone with eyes could see that yes, Sanji has the ingredients for a cake laid out.

Niji holds a carton while Ichiji pelts Go with eggs. He aims for their abdomen.

“Bet I can get the yolk to fall into its chastity cage,” Ichiji declares.

“If you can’t, you have to do my classwork for a week,” Niji wagers.

“Deal.”

Ichiji loses, but not for lack of trying.

“Well, that was fun,” Niji declares as they take their leave.

“We’re headed for war, failures,” Yonji sneers. “Enjoy the ride.”

Go blinks. Germa is always at war. But for Yonji to make such a declaration, he doesn’t mean the usual fare in North Blue. They’re going to conquer somewhere new.

“Sanji,” Go says once they’re gone. “The fleet will be crossing the Red Line soon. You should secure everything in the cell.”

Go wishes they knew how the cell was oriented on the den den ship. There’s no windows in the dungeon to calculate. All they can do is pray for the chance that the wall they’re attached to is parallel to the snail’s head, so that they’re only spending half the multi-hour climb and descent dangling from the chains, slowly castrated by a metal wedgie.

Sanji, in a bloody heap on the floor, groans. He tries to stand, but collapses immediately. Go notices a small molar on the floor a few feet away, but brushes it off as soon as they recognize it as one of his few remaining baby teeth.

“Sanji,” they repeat. No response. He must have fallen asleep, then.

They sigh. Germa could reach the Red Line in ten minutes or ten days, for all they know. Might as well let him rest.

Reiju appears twenty minutes later, carrying a first aid kit. She’s able to rouse Sanji, and gives Go some information as she bandages him through the bars.

They’ll climb the Red Line in two hours, headed for East Blue. Go’s wall is, in fact, parallel to the head, which is a small mercy.

When Sanji is no longer leaking blood, Reiju gives him a washcloth to wipe Go down. Their injuries heal fast enough that they don’t really need medical aid, but it’s nice not to be covered in egg. They really owe Reiju for this one.

Go inclines their head in gratitude as Sanji works. Reiju’s frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything. She watches for a moment longer before leaving silently.

“Okay, I think I’m done,” Sanji nods to himself, looking over Go one last time before turning around. “Thanks, Rei-”

He cuts himself off in confusion at the empty hallway.

“She left almost a minute ago,” Go informs him.

“Oh.” Sanji stands in place for a few moments, unsure what to do, before placing the soiled rag on their little dining table. He stares at it silently for a long time.

“Do you ever think about running away?” Sanji asks, breaking the silence. His voice sounds so fragile.

“No,” Go says truthfully, because they have no reason to lie to Sanji. “But I do think that virtually anything else would be better than being here. Including being dead.”

Sanji nods to himself, like he was expecting this answer. In the same way that Go has learned to read Sanji’s emotions, he’s gotten to know their bluntness.

“I want to run away,” Sanji admits quietly. “I’d give anything, just to be free.”

Go thinks that there isn’t very much left for him to give, but they understand the sentiment.

“Would you come with me?” Sanji asks, eyes big and vulnerable. Full of those emotions that used to make Go so wary.

“Yes,” Go says immediately. There’s nothing to consider. They meant what they said; even death would be better than their current existence. If Judge sent people to hunt them down and kill them, it would still be a net improvement.

Besides, Sanji is the only thing they have vested interest in, at this point. If he left or got executed, Go would probably become little more than a vegetable.

For the first time in a while, Sanji looks hopeful.

“We would need Reiju’s help,” Go says, already formulating a plan. “She has no logical incentive to help us, and plenty of big reasons not to. Our only chance to persuade her is an appeal to emotion.”

“She- she’ll help us.” Sanji’s voice is small. “Reiju is kind.”

Go hums. Reiju wants to be kind. That’s not the same as being kind. Reiju also wants to avoid abuse, so it’s a matter of which desire is stronger. Usually, it’s the latter, but the more pathetic Sanji is, the more her emotions factor in. If he asks, crying and desperate (and Go knows for a fact he will start crying), there’s a chance Reiju will act against her better judgment to help, as long as it’s not traced back to her.

“You can ask,” Go grants. “For now, we need to secure the cell. The room is going to rotate.”

It mostly involves throwing the cooking supplies and books into the oven, since it’s bolted to the floor. Sanji is in the middle of taking the table apart to cram in there too, when the ground rumbles. Land.

“Leave it, Sanji,” Go orders. “Get ready to jump.”

He nods. The snail suddenly tilts, and Go’s back presses against the wall for the ascent. Relief floods through them. They have at least a few hours of reprieve.

The descent is just as unpleasant as expected. Go dangles from the wall-turned-ceiling by a pair of chains attached to their metal codpiece. The sharp grooves of the leg holes carve into their skin through the fabric of their pants, slicing up against the pelvic bone. If Go were a normal child, they would have passed out. Sanji sits below on the metal grate, out of the way of the blood steadily dripping from Go’s legs. Though the occasional drop hits him when the den den jostles and flicks it around.

Sanji insists on talking the entire two hour descent. He rambles on about various recipes, and eventually starts talking about the All Blue, a fairytale sea that’s a supposed pilgrimage spot for all great chefs. He wants to go there. He makes up a story about the two of them stealing a rowboat and paddling there together, swallowed by a giant whale who is “actually good,” and trying to reach the All Blue to visit a friend, so it takes them the rest of the way in its stomach.

Go knows he plagiarized most of the plot from another fairytale in the book, but they don't call him out on it.

Chapter 3: Escape

Chapter Text

A few days later, there’s sounds of fighting and gunshots in the distance. Reiju appears in the corridor like a specter.

“Reiju!” Sanji cries, running to the bars of the cage.

“Reiju, please, I-” his voice catches. “We can’t take it anymore. We just want to run away.”

They talk for a minute, in hushed, tense words. Sanji sobs, of course, and Go holds their breath, watching Reiju’s expression. Alone with Sanji, her usual mask is off, so they can see the conflicting emotions flicker across her face.

There’s a tug-of-war as they talk, until Sanji apparently says something to sway her, and Go watches the dregs of Reiju’s resolve visibly crumple.

“I’ll free you,” Reiju tells him. He sags in relief. “But not them. It’s too dangerous”

Ah. Fair enough.

“Would you at least come back to kill me once he’s gone?” Go asks, because spending the rest of their life in a state of permanent dissociation doesn’t sound fun.

“No!” Sanji cries, “You have to come with me! Reiju, please, I won’t leave them.”

“Then stay here,” Reiju snaps at him, “You’re a normal kid, but Go’s different. I won’t risk it.”

They wouldn’t either, in her shoes. If a freed Go wanted to take revenge on Judge one day down the line, they could. They aren’t as strong as the successful children anymore, but their DNA alone is still a technological marvel; selling it to Germa’s political enemies or business competitors would be easy. Or, they could simply throw around the name “Go Vinsmoke” and pull down their pants in front of a witness to set the royal family’s reputation ablaze.

Go would vow to never do any of those things if it meant living in freedom, but it’s not like Reiju has any insurance. If they came back to bite Judge in the ass, he wouldn’t hesitate to sniff out the one who set them free and take it out on her.

“Please, Reiju,” Sanji’s voice breaks. “I won’t leave them. They deserve freedom too.”

Go is ready to just have Reiju drag him away, when her eyes dart towards them, her face conflicted as she catches the dried pool of blood crusted at their feet from the ride over the Grand Line.

Interesting. Maybe Reiju is influenced by Sanji more than they thought. Sora once said that love causes people to prioritize another’s happiness at the expense of themselves. It’s possible that Reiju really does love Sanji, enough to risk even this.

“Please,” Sanji begs, tears leaking from his helmet.

Reiju caves.

“Alright,” she says, pained. “I’ll get you both out of the cell, but the rest is up to you.”

She meets Go’s eyes and they nod. The helmets, the escape, that’s on Go.

“Thank you, Reiju,” Sanji hiccups, “thank you!”

She frowns and pries the bars apart without responding.

Sanji lurches forward to hug her, but she sidesteps, beelining for Go. With two swift kicks, each chain tethering them to the wall snaps cleanly in half.

“That’s all I’ll do for you,” she says coldly. “Make sure you’re gone within ten minutes.”

Go nods. Easy enough.

She turns away and faces a sniffling Sanji, pulling him into a rough hug.

“Get away from this,” she says, voice choked, “Run until your feet bleed and don’t ever look back.”

“Reiju,” Sanji’s voice breaks. “Come with-”

“I can’t,” Reiju cuts him off. “I can’t. But you have to, okay? You have to go. Flush this place out of you like a poison, Sanji.”

She pulls away, but keeps hold of his hands. In a gesture that’s very reminiscent of Sora, she gives them one last squeeze.

“Don’t screw up.”

And she flees.

They won’t get far with the helmets and codpiece, so their first objective is the keys. Go has an inkling where a set might be, considering Judge’s raging egomania. (Studying psychology does have practical applications, apparently.) They just have to get in and out undetected before Reiju sounds the alarm.

This is easier said than done, especially considering Go has to waddle around the metal diaper and carefully muffle every link on their dangling chains for any modicum of stealth, while Sanji can barely go faster than a brisk walk without the helmet threatening to snap his neck.

But the invasion outside is a good cover. The halls are pretty barren. They make it into Judge’s personal chambers without issue, and Go is too high strung to realize that’s too good to be true.

Sanji is on their shoulders, collecting the last ring of keys from behind the painting, when Judge saunters in.

“Isn’t this pathetic?” He says, lip curled back in disgust.

Sanji yelps and falls backward, but Go’s able to twist and catch themselves, just short of a total wipeout. Sanji’s reflexes, unfortunately, aren’t that good. His helmet hits the ground and rings like a gong.

“Father,” Go says evenly. They grab a sword off the wall and yank Sanji up by the collar, too. He needs to be ready to run.

“Go,” Judge sneers. “You freed the total failure, too.”

Beside them, Sanji flinches. Go squeezes his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Panicking or crying will only serve to irritate Judge further, which they don’t need right now.

“This day will be quite fortuitous for you,” Go says, grabbing a sword from the wall and brandishing it, “You’ll never have to see or hear from us again.”

“W-We’re leaving,” Sanji says, voice quivering, but raising his fists combatively, “And you can’t stop us.”

Judge levels Go with an unimpressed glare, ignoring his son altogether.

“That’s a relief. I guess I really am human. I couldn’t bring myself to kill my own children, as useless or revolting as you may be.”

Part of Go had always wondered why Judge never bothered to just dispose of them.

“Consider this a way to cut food costs,” Go replies.

He laughs, a bitter thing.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t think either of you could survive a month on your own. Sanji is so pathetic he’ll die within a week, and the first sailor to realize you’re an abomination will throw you overboard immediately.”

“Then you have nothing to lose by letting us run,” Go concludes.

“Everything to gain, actually,” Judge considers them for a moment. “Alright, I will let you go. On the condition that by leaving here you revoke your birthrights, and swear to me that the name Vinsmoke will never again leave your lips. You are no longer royals, and you are no longer my children. You may never, ever admit to another person that I am your father. I don’t want anyone to learn my shame.”

Sanji’s breath hitches. His weeping is muffled by the helmet.

“Easily. I swear it,” Go agrees without hesitation.

“M-me too,” Sanji stammers out between sobs, “I swear. Please, just let us go.”

“Alright. Get out of my sight,” Judge says, stepping aside from his position blocking the exit.

Go grabs Sanji by the wrist, scoops every key off the ground, and drags him out of the room. He stumbles along, despite being a sniffling mess of fear.

“And Go,” Judge calls after them. “If I find anyone with Germa 66 genetic tech, I’ll send your brothers to drag you both right back here, and lock you both in less pleasant, much more permanent cages. Is that clear?”

Go stiffens.

“Yes, sir.”

They pick up the pace and yank Sanji along with them, until they make it to the soft sands of an island beach.

Chapter 4: Freedom

Chapter Text

The helmets come off. The wind feels foreign on their face.

Sanji’s hair is tangled into horrible blonde mats from nearly a year of neglect, and Go can only imagine their longer, purple locks are even worse off.

The codpiece falls into the sand with a thud, and Go punts it into the ocean just to get it as far away as possible. Their pants are tattered and bloody, but hold together, thankfully.

“N-now what?” Sanji asks, watching the battlefield where Germa’s men are slaughtering soldiers and civilians alike.

Go grabs his wrist and pulls him away, towards a civilian ship that’s desperately pulling out of port. ‘The Orbit’ is painted into its garish pink hull.

“Our parents died in this raid. We’re brothers looking for work and a place to stay. You have experience working in kitchens, and I’m stronger than I look from hauling crates for a local grocer. Let me do the talking, though it would help if you cry.”

Sanji hiccups, but nods. He hasn’t stopped crying since they ran from Judge, so his role shouldn’t be too hard to fulfill.

The boatswain is willing to give them work and a hammock to share, but he’s trying to put Sanji on cleaning duty, which Go will not abide. His dream is to be a great chef, and he’s going to start now. Period.

“He has the culinary skills,” Go argues coldly, “his talents are wasted on a mop. I’ll do the grunt work and the swabbing if it means he works in the galley. I’m efficient.”

Sanji squeezes their hand, grip suddenly like a lifeline. His tears have dried up since they secured passage, though Go isn’t sure if that’s due to relief or dehydration.

“And I’m telling you I don’t care. The chef hires his own men. I couldn’t get you the job if I wanted to.”

“Then let us talk to him,” Go says brusquely, “if he agrees, you can give me the work you’re trying to give my brother, too. And I’ll do it better.”

The boatswain grumbles but agrees, leading them down to the bowels of the ship.

“Thanks, Go,” Sanji whispers as they walk, his clammy hand still in theirs, “I love you.”

Go’s step falters for half a second, but they recover just as quick.

“Don’t thank me yet. We still need to convince the head chef.”

“Okay,” Sanji replies, but his lip is curled up with the faintest beginnings of a smile.

Go is persuasive and Sanji is passionate, so the head chef, of course, grants Sanji a busboy position. It’s the bottom of the totem pole, but their brother is vibrating with joy, so Go is satisfied.

The boatswain gives the two of them the rest of the day to wash up and rest before starting work in the morning. The fact that they’re hard to look at definitely influenced his decision. Go’s ripped pants, bow-legged stride, and bloody legs probably give the impression they’ve been raped by the soldiers. They’re happy to let that assumption ride if it means people are more likely to avert their eyes when Go needs to change clothes in the shared quarters.

A fellow cabin boy shows them around disinterestedly, supplies them with two uniforms each, two towels, and a single bar of soap, then cuts them loose.

“Sanji, we’re going to the showers now,” Go says as soon as he’s gone.

Sanji doesn’t protest. They leave the spare uniforms on their shared hammock, and slip into the washroom, blissfully abandoned at midday while everyone is at work.

Silently, efficiently, Go removes Sanji’s clothes, turns on the water, and sits him on a shower bench. Then they slip a letter opener from their sleeve, expertly pocketed from the boatswain’s office.

Under the stream, still clothed, Go lathers Sanji’s hair with soap. They comb through his head with their fingers best they can, and slice off the mats they can’t salvage.

“You want it shaved?” Go asks.

“No,” Sanji says quietly. “My head already feels too light.”

Go hums, and does their best to make it look layered instead of patchy. They aren’t the most… artful. But he’s not bald.

When they’re done, they step back and let him wash properly. Go turns away to give him some modicum of privacy, even though they‘ve both seen everything during that year in the cell.

“What about you, Go?” Sanji asks. His voice is hoarse from all the crying.

“I’ll go when you’re done. I… you’ll need to keep watch, in case someone comes in.”

Go doesn’t have a great frame of reference for how the wider world treats intersex people. The only books they’ve read that mentioned it were medical texts about correcting it. Judge implied that murder was a common reaction, and they’re not sure how true that is. Plus, they told the boatswain they’re a boy, and for all they know, the two of them might be punished just on principle for lying.

“The ship thinks I’m a boy. We have to be careful.”

Sanji doesn’t respond for a moment, the sound of trickling water echoing off the tiles.

“Do you want to be a boy?” He asks, eventually. “Like, for real?”

Go sighs, exhausted. “I don’t really want things like you do, Sanji. It’s just a cover.”

Like when their mom asked about being called Goju, they don’t really care. They have never - and never will, at this point - fit neatly into either category, so choosing to be one or the other seems pointless. Incorrect. It’s much more convenient to let the rest of the world assume whatever lie benefits Go and Sanji the most in this new life.

“Okay,” Sanji accepts. “But if you do want something, you have to tell me, okay? You’re helping me with my dream, I want to help with yours.”

Go lets out a snort. The closest they get to desires is boredom, which is just a lack of stimulus. They definitely don’t have dreams. Trying to understand and help Sanji is interesting, which gives them a reason to live, so they have a vested interest in making him happy. But wanting? That’s beyond them.

“Sure. If that ever happens, I’ll let you know.”

Go showers. Shaves their head. Time passes. The two of them start work.

Go dials back their strength, so it doesn’t draw suspicion, but uses enough that they become indispensable pretty quickly. After only a few weeks, Go is responsible for a number of tasks that would normally take three regular cabin boys. The boatswain is thrilled.

Sanji loves his job. He talks about it every moment they’re together, until someone else in the berth hollers at him to shut up. He’s learning a lot from watching while on dish duty, even if he wishes he could actually cook. Go is satisfied that the arrangement works. If he’s still not cooking in a few months, they’ll have a word with the chef to figure out why. No one will be taking advantage of Sanji’s willing nature as long as Go’s around.

At the end of the first month, they get paid, and the ship spends two days at a port. Go finally, blessedly, buys underwear that isn’t shredded and bloodstained. They buy some sleepwear for both themselves and Sanji, so that they don’t have to wash their uniforms as often.

In the middle of shopping, Go turns around, and Sanji is no longer there.

Every single alarm bell in their head goes off.

He’s been kidnapped for slave trading. Abducted and raped. Murdered in a back alley. Recognized and taken hostage. Every single outlandish, unlikely, horrible possibility crosses Go’s mind, as they comb the entire store. No Sanji.

How the hell did this happen? Go is the strong one, the smart one. Sanji is a regular human child, alone in a massive port town with his big bleeding heart and fragile body. Go didn’t hold his hand, and now Sanji is probably dead.

They leave in a daze without paying. They scan the street, searching for any sign of blonde hair.

There. A blur of yellow, through the window of a shop. He’s inside.

Go barrels down the street, knocking over full-grown adults in their way. They throw the shop’s door open so hard the entire building rattles.

“Sanji!” Go barks, ignoring the startled eyes of every customer and employee on them.

It’s a bookshop. Only one public entrance and exit. There’s a curtain leading to a room in the back, that likely leads out to an alleyway. Anyone trying to escape has to cross their line of sight or jump through a window, which would slow them down enough-

“Go?” Sanji squeaks, peeking out from behind a shelf. He’s alone and unharmed, though he looks a little shaken.

Go strides up to him and grabs him by the shoulders. Maybe a little too tight.

“You were gone,” they grit out. “I thought you were kidnapped.”

Sanji’s eyes go wide.

“I’m sorry! I thought - I was just going to sneak away for a moment, I didn’t think you’d notice if I was fast.”

Go doesn’t know how to reply to that. They don’t even know why they told Sanji what they assumed, when it was clearly an incorrect and baseless theory. There’s no reason for them to continue holding him. But they don’t uncurl their fingers.

What the f*ck is wrong with them?

“Um, a lot of people are staring, Go,” Sanji says, grabbing their arm gently. “I’m gonna pay, and then we’ll go back to the ship, okay?”

Go nods, stiffly, and releases him. Why didn’t they notice people staring? They can’t even think of anything to say to diffuse the crowd. It’s like they’re malfunctioning.

The stand still and tense as Sanji pays, useless as a dead battery. And then they follow him back to the ship.

“Let’s go to the showers, yeah?” Sanji asks as they approach the berth.

Go nods. They’re starting to feel more like themselves, but they still have no clue what just happened, and it’s frying their brain. Mechanically, they grab their towel and the new bar of soap that Sanji picked out and they head to the washroom.

Midday at a port, the ship has barely a skeleton crew aboard. No one will be coming in. But after they undress, Go keeps their towel on anyway. Better safe than sorry. And just because Sanji has seen their genitalia before doesn’t mean they’ll subject him to looking at it any more than he needs to.

Sanji leads them to a shower bench, sits them down, and begins to lather their scalp. There’s just barely fuzz growing from when Go shaved it to the skin, so it’s not necessary to scrub, but last time they pointed this out, Sanji said to shut up because he likes doing it, so Go doesn’t protest.

“I don’t know what happened,” Go admits bluntly as Sanji works. “You were unexpectedly gone, and for some reason I assumed the worst, then acted on that assumption. It was… completely illogical. Perhaps I have brain damage...”

Sanji’s fingers still for just a moment, before he resumes.

“Go... I think you were scared.”

Their spine snaps ramrod straight.

“Impossible,” They say immediately. “I’m medically incapable.”

“I dunno. What you’re describing, it sounds like you were worried.”

“That can’t be it.”

Because it can’t. Aside from that damned additional chromosome, their DNA is exactly as Judge designed. There are no neurons connecting from the necessary parts of their amygdala or limbic cortex to experience emotion.

“What else would it be?” Sanji asks. They can practically hear the way his brow furrows in his voice, unsure.

“I don’t know,” Go admits. “But it can’t be that. It’s not possible.”

They finish showering. Sanji keeps watch for Go, as usual. The two return to their bunk in their new sleepwear, despite the fact that it’s only 4pm. Go has the graveyard lookout shift for the next leg, and Sanji doesn’t have work to do past 9am without any customers on board. So they have the time.

The soap Sanji picked out smells like lavender, which is objectively better than the raw lye of the ship’s supply. Snuggled up in the hammock together with fresh clothes and the scent enveloping them, it’s pleasant. Warm.

“Sorry again for ditching you,” Sanji apologizes. “I, um, I was actually getting you something. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

He reaches under the hammock and grabs a bag.

“Why?” Go asks.

“Because surprises are fun!” He grins. “…Uh, usually.”

They meant more why the hell would Sanji get them a gift, but then they remember that Sanji is just like that. Kind in a way that always baffles Go.

“Here! Open it,” Sanji hands them the bag.

Curiously, Go reaches inside and pulls out a small paper-back book. In plain, serif letters, the title reads “Dictionary of Behavioral Psychology, 5th Edition.”

“I’m learning a lot about my dream on this ship, so I wanted to get you something to learn too,” Sanji says. “I didn’t remember that one from your shelf back… before. So hopefully it’s interesting! But if you don’t like it I could go back and get something different. Anything, really. Honestly, this might be a really boring book and it’d be okay, if-”

“Shut up, Sanji,” Go says, gingerly opening the cover. “It’s perfect.”

Sanji snaps his mouth shut, blushing. “Oh. Okay good.”

Seven months into their time on the ship, Sanji storms over to their hammock holding back tears.

“What happened?” Go asks, already preparing to break the fingers of whatever meathead made him upset.

“Nothing,” Sanji says, avoiding their eyes by digging through his chest for his sleep clothes.

“Bullsh*t. You’re crying.”

They both learned cuss words from the sailors, and every single one quickly entered their lexicons.

“I’m not crying. Shut the hell up.” He quickly wipes a sleeve over his eye.

“Sanji,” Go says sternly, tone forcing him to look up. “Tell me. What. Happened.”

“…it’s stupid,” Sanji growls, eyes darting to his feet.

“I don’t care about that. I find most things you say stupid.”

Sanji snorts, which means Go has convinced him.

“It was just something the cooks said,” he admits. “I… I mentioned the All Blue, and that I wanted to find it, and they all laughed at me. Said… said it wasn’t real, and that believing it makes me dumb, even for a kid.”

Go narrows their eyes.

“You’re not dumb at all. Especially not for a child. You’ve surpassed cognitive development milestones well into your teens, and your vocabulary and basic reasoning skills are above average for your age group.”

Sanji rubs his shoulders and looks away. “Well, it didn’t feel that way when the bastards all took turns pointing out how impossible All Blue is.”

Go can’t argue with that. Feelings are often incongruent with reality, especially for children. And the All Blue…

To Go, that mythical ocean had always been the less practical flipside to their brother’s dream. Become a great chef, and find the All Blue. A reasonable goal, and an impossible quest. But they never said it out loud, because there was no point in upsetting him. He wanted to be a chef first, anyway. If he still believed in the All Blue once he got that far, Go would’ve figured out a way to break it to him. Or maybe just let him discover it’s a myth on his own.

But that’s supposed to be years down the line. Right now, Sanji is eight years old, and imagination is important for his development. It’s one of the few things from his childhood that Judge hadn’t been able to ruin. For Sanji, the All Blue is real, and those assholes have no right to take that from him. And they certainly don’t have the right to make him cry. Not while Go lives and breathes.

“They’re f*cking idiots, all of them. Who were the ones who said it? They won’t hold a spatula ever again.”

“Go, no!” Sanji slaps a hand over their mouth to shush them. “You’ll get us kicked off the damn ship! It was well over half the kitchen, anyway. You can’t take them all.”

Without revealing your true strength, goes unsaid.

“Fine. They can keep using their hands. But only because your heart is too damn big for your own good.”

Sanji snickers, and hearing it is just as cathartic as breaking a few fingers. More effective at keeping their brother happy, too.

Chapter 5: Enter: Red Leg

Chapter Text

Two years working at sea gives Sanji some much-needed bark to distract from his frankly concerning kindness. It’s done wonders for Go’s sanity, knowing that Sanji is no longer afraid to mouth off to strangers, and that his filthy vocabulary makes him sound like an asshole, even if it’d probably kill him to be properly mean to someone.

At the very least, Go doesn’t have to worry about him docilely following a kidnapper or something. Sanji is even willing to throw punches now, if people get handsy. Go makes him practice his form weekly.

The term “worry” is, of course, an exaggeration. Go is still firmly of the belief that they can’t have emotions, despite a handful of unexplainable moments since Sanji brought it up. On the flipside, their dumbass brother is more convinced than ever, and it’s become his favorite form of teasing.

“Goodnight Go, love you.”

“That’s great, Sanji.”

“Yeah. You love me back.”

“Go to f*cking sleep, Sanji.”

Go is now the head cabin boy, because they do the work of five of them anyway. And the kitchen starts letting Sanji actually touch the food.

“I’m getting really good at chopping,” Sanji tells them one night, “I haven’t cut myself in two weeks, and the sous chef even let me prepare an onion for him!”

Go assumes this is impressive. At least he’s having fun.

Sanji also insists that Go read more about psychology, since it’s the only concrete thing they’ve ever shown interest in, and he wants them to be happy too or whatever. No matter how many times Go explains that they feel the same level of stimulation from lifting crates as they do reading, Sanji won’t hear it. So they pick up a new book in every port to shut him up.

(Based on one they read recently, Sanji’s knife skills suggest he has phenomenal motor skills for a nine-year-old.)

Sanji’s head is full of hair once again, Go cuts it for him regularly - now with actual scissors - to keep it out of the food. Go is letting theirs grow long again, just because they can and it’s what they know. It’s already past their shoulder blades.

Time ticks on. They grow up. They get comfortable. And that’s a mistake Go will never make again.

There are storm clouds on the horizon and pirates on the Orbit.

Go is all the way down in the hold, taking inventory, when four men with cutlasses pour in through the door, spitting threats. Go’s blood runs ice cold, body reacting to its purpose: combat. Everything is suddenly much slower, so much easier to react to. They take out two pirates with one roundhouse kick and throw the third guy into the fourth.

In less than a second, all four men are flat on the floor, wind knocked out of their chests. Go tears out of the hold before any of them can recover. The only thing on their mind is Sanji, Sanji, Sanji…

The kitchen is empty. There’s blood spatters on the wall. At one of the counters, a milk crate is overturned for use as a step-stool, in front of a half-chopped cabbage. Abandoned.

Go lets out a string of curses and flies out onto the deck. It’s chaos. Passengers are screaming, people are bleeding, the wind and rain are whipping against the waves and the sails with a vengeance.

Laid out in the middle of the deck, with his teeth clamped around a pirate captain’s ankle, is their stupid f*cking brother.

“I WILL REACH THE ALL BLUE!” He screams around the boot in his mouth.

That sensation from losing Sanji in the port town returns tenfold. This gripping irrational certainty that the worst is happening, except that this time, it’s real. A seasoned murderer has his eyes trained on Sanji; fragile, breakable Sanji. Go’s only reason to live.

This is the moment they realize that their brother was right. That they can apparently feel emotions. Because right now, a gut-wrenching, spine-snapping fear is gripping them by the neck and choking. Sanji is going to die.

The pirate captain kicks him into a wall. The deck tilts, or maybe it’s Go’s world falling off its axis.

They’re running, ready to blow every semblance of cover to snap this bastard’s neck if it means protecting their brother. With their speed, it takes the span of a breath to close the distance and leap for the back of the captain’s head.

Impossibly, the man turns, meeting their eye like he knew they were coming, and swings his foot down, ax-kicking them into the deck half-an inch before they can reach him.

“Don’t tell me. You refuse to die here, too, brat?” The captain asks. His heel digs into their solar plexus, pinning them to the deck with impossible force.

“I’m going to rip your throat out for touching him,” Go snarls, struggling against his boot. They have no idea what to do. They usually just rely on their inhuman strength to win, but against this man they might as well be a regular ten-year-old.

If this is how they fare, what did that kick do to Sanji?

They thrash and buck with new vigor, but the pirate’s heel doesn’t budge.

“SANJI!” They scream, desperate for any sort of response, “SANJI!”

“Go!” they hear in the distance, barely audible over the pounding rain. Weak, but unmistakable.

“Run, Sa-!”

Beneath them, the Orbit lurches, and the shadow of a massive wave plunges the deck into darkness. It crashes over the ship, waterboarding them under this pirate’s firm boot. But the man doesn’t even budge under the force of the ocean.

“sh*t,” the captain mutters distractedly, and then, for some reason, releases them.

They’re on their feet, ready to fight, but the man has turned away, running towards the ship’s railing.

And that’s when Go realizes Sanji isn’t on the deck.

The entire world is reduced to a single, dull tone, and the rapid beat of blood pumping in their ears. For one precarious, eternal moment, they feel that pull from their time in the cell, a temptation to just let go, and fall into a dissociative state, where their body moves on their own, and Go can float nearby, mind blissfully blank. Nothing to live for, nothing to think about.

No one to care for.

Movement in their line of sight drags them out of it. The pirate dives overboard, and Go’s brain finally starts working, connecting the dots.

Sanji is in the ocean.

They sprint to the railing and vault over the side of the ship. Cold water shocks their system but they stubbornly force their muscles to loosen, searching frantically for that glimpse of yellow hair.

The water is churning and murky. Salt stings their eyes. But they’ve spent two years honing their senses to pick Sanji out of any crowd, any hiding spot, any situation. And they catch a flash of him far below, sinking rapidly with bubbles of precious air floating up away from him.

Go’s arms carve through the water, diving for Sanji with all their superhuman speed and strength. Above them, the light shifts and water churns with a massive crash, but Go doesn’t care. Sanji is only a few yards away, tangled in a fishing net, and-

And the pirate captain is with him.

Go sees red. They close the distance and body-check the man out of the way before he can choke Sanji out with the net or something. The pirate drifts a few feet away and Go tears at the net, tangled up in pounds of other debris. Sanji’s eyes flutter for a moment before they roll back, completely white.

No.

Go releases the net, pinches Sanji’s nose, and breathes air into his lungs. They’re superhuman. They can take a little suffocation. Sanji needs the air more.

They’re sinking deeper now. The water pressure is starting to weigh on them. Between the mounting pressure and the lack of oxygen, Go’s vision swims and their hands shake, but they keep working at the net.

Something moves into their line of sight. A blur of colors they can’t quite make sense of. A pair of larger hands helping them with the net.

Finally, finally, the hole is big enough to pull him out. Go yanks, and black spots dance across their vision. The movement burns their lungs like a searing flame, but they can’t spare a moment to care. Up. They have to get Sanji up. Which way is up? Light. They need light. But everything is dark, and getting darker.

The last thing they see is that blur from before floating into view, moving towards them. Close. Too close, they’re trying to take Sanji. Hurt him.

Go kicks out blindly, and the motion forces them to suck in a breath, but all that awaits them is rushing salt water, scorching them from the inside out. The pain is too much. It’s too much. Sorry Sanji, Go’s body won’t move, it’s burning up. It’s on fire.

Love is warm, they think deliriously. And they pass out.

Chapter 6: Stranded

Chapter Text

Go startles awake, and everything feels wrong. Like they’ve been through a meat grinder and sculpted poorly back together.

They flip over and vomit. It’s seawater, bile, and blood. Some of it comes out their nose, too. Go’s whole body convulses, and they only get half a second to breathe before even more comes up. A hand slams their back to help them get the dregs out, until it’s just wet coughs.

“f*ck,” they croak, between the hacking. Sea water. Drowning. Sanji.

“Sanji!” They shout, and immediately regret it as the coughing comes back with a vengeance.

“He’s fine, just unconscious,” says a gruff voice.

Go tenses.

They flip over again. Sanji is a few feet away, limp and wet but breathing. This is enough to release most of the tension helping Go to sit up. They sag pathetically, and shoot a look at the source of the voice.

The pirate captain. Expression unreadable.

It’s just the three of them, plus two white bags, on a barren sea rock. Nothing else on the horizon.

They’re alone.

Okay. This pirate was helping them breathe, so he wants them alive. Why would he want that?

“If you’re looking for sex, you can do whatever you want to me. Just don’t touch him.” The words hurt. Their throat tastes like blood.

A scowl forms under the man’s mustache.

“The f*ck you take me for?” He growls with disgust.

“You just saved two random kids, and only two kids. Not even your crew. Whatever this is, I won’t let you touch my brother.”

The pirate’s eyes narrow.

“The name Red Leg Zeff is known for a lot of abhorrent crimes, but I’d never let it be associated with rape. And certainly not child rape. I castrate those types.”

Go sizes him up, searching for any tells. They can’t find any, so they’ll take him at his word. For now.

“Alright,” They say, yielding. And then they drag themselves over to Sanji.

They’ve been itching to be near him since they caught sight of him, and now that they don’t have to worry about Zeff’s intentions, there’s no point in restraining themselves.

They check for injuries. A few bruises and scrapes, some rope burns, but nothing concerning. Beatings from their brothers regularly left him worse off. He’ll be fine.

“Surprised you came-to first, considerin’ you’re the one who died,” Zeff says.

Go freezes.

“What?” They ask. Surely, they misheard.

“Died,” He repeats bluntly. “Blew all your f*ckin’ air into the shrimp’s lungs. Idiot.”

“Shut your f*cking mouth. I’d do it again.”

Zeff’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment further.

They died. Zeff must have resuscitated them. Because Go died. That’s… they can never tell Sanji. Ever.

“Well, you both lived.” Zeff huffs a dry laugh. “Not sure how long it’ll last, though. We’re stranded here.” He turns to stare grimly on the horizon. “Both ships are rubble. Nothin’ for miles. Our only hope is that a random soul passes by and we can get their attention.”

Go’s mouth presses into a displeased line. They were childishly holding onto a tiny hope that Red Leg had a secret backup fleet on the way or something. But they really are at the mercy of time and chance. It’s the cell all over again with different set dressing; more light, less food, and a dubious stranger.

“What’re the bags?” Go asks, jutting their chin towards them.

“What I could grab,” Zeff replies. “Rations. Small one is for you and pipsqueak. Big one’s for me.”

Go narrows their eyes, watching him closely.

“There’s two of us.”

“Tough sh*t. I’m bigger. I eat more.”

There. The tiniest downward twitch of his mustache. A tell. Something’s off.

Go pushes themselves to their feet and staggers over to the bags. Picks up the small one. Inside, there are several soggy loaves of bread, some dried meat, four apples, and in an ironic twist of fate, the unchopped half of Sanji’s f*cking cabbage from the galley, deconstructed.

They stumble to the other one.

“Hands off, that’s mine,” Zeff barks.

He moves to intercept them, but not before their hand touches the bag.

Metal.

Zeff yanks them back violently, but the damage has been done. They know. And it’s so obvious now, that it’s not food. The shapes in the bag are just a little too sharp, too firm. Whatever’s inside, it’s not edible.

Zeff throws them down onto the rock, looming over them.

“You f*cking bastard,” Go says, an accusation.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“What the f*ck is your plan? Because you certainly don’t seem like the type to roll over and die.”

He scowls.

“That’s my business. I’ve survived worse.”

“It’s about to be my business, because you’re going to tell me.”

“Like hell, sh*tty brat.”

“I’m not eating an ounce of this,” Go says, hefting the small bag. “It’s all going to Sanji. He’s more important than me, and I’ll throw myself into the sea before I let a single crumb touch my lips if it gives him even a second longer to live. So tell me what your f*cking plan is, because I want in.”

Zeff glares back silently. His mustache twitches. But he doesn’t respond.

“You have a fishing rod or something?” They goad. “A secret meditation technique?”

“Just shut up, brat.”

“Or are you just fattening us up to eat us?”

“Shut up,” Zeff snarls. He sweeps his leg out and Go hits the ground, hard.

They push themselves back up, body weak from drowning but recovering fast. Another kick aims for their head, but they’re ready now, catching it with both hands. Even with the block, the force pushes them a few feet.

“You little sh*t. You’re gonna eat that food.”

“Never,” they spit.

Zeff switch-kicks their face, and they stumble back, nose gushing blood.

“Fightin’ wastes energy. Every movement’s an hour nearer death.”

“Better quit now, then, old man,” Go puts their fists up. “Unless you got a way to last longer?”

“Not for you,” He growls. Another kick. Go doubles over, clutching their stomach.

“So- hah- you do have something-” They wheeze.

Zeff scowls and launches another swiping kick. Go manages to barely jump over it.

“Take the DAMN FOOD!”

Just like on the ship, his foot slams into their diaphragm and pins them to the ground. They snarl and spit and struggle, but he doesn’t budge an inch.

“DON’T TOUCH THEM!” A new voice screams.

Both heads whip in unison towards Sanji, tiny and outraged, launching himself at Zeff in a full-body tackle.

The sh*tty old man steps off Go to easily dodge him, and Sanji crashes down on top of them.

Sanji, the massive f*cking idiot, scrambles to his feet and stands protectively between Go and Red Leg.

“I said you get what I give you, nothin’ more,” Zeff says coolly, eyes on Go. “If you don’t like what’s in your bag, then you’ll have to kill me for mine.”

Over them, Sanji tenses. Go meets Zeff’s gaze, but doesn’t reply.

“Instead of wastin’ precious energy, go sit across the rock and watch your half the horizon. Can’t afford to miss a ship.”

Sanji doesn’t budge, and Go makes a mental note to drill some self-preservational instincts into him if they survive this.

“Fine,” They spit, glare venomous. Zeff returns it. “C’mon, Sanji. I don’t want to see his ugly mug any longer.”

Go keeps their word. They’re not eating a single bite. Every calorie is going to go towards keeping Sanji alive for as long as possible.

They’ve calculated the rations precisely. Sanji, after learning the grim circ*mstances, lets Go be in charge of rations, since he agrees they’re much more pragmatic and better able to restrain both themselves and Sanji for the sake of survival.

He remains oblivious to the extent that this is true, and Go plans to keep it that way. As far as he’ll know, Go is eating the same rations.

The rationing plan maximizes his survival time as much as possible. Barest minimum caloric intake per day to retain lucidity, starting with the fastest-rotting foods. He’ll last 6 weeks. Go will make sure he lasts 6 weeks. Go estimates that their own enhanced metabolism gives them a little over double the time of a normal child. Without food, this gives them maybe 3 weeks to figure out Zeff’s plan, or at the very least ensure Sanji’s best chances at survival once they’re dead.

During the day, Go and Sanji take shifts, staring out into the ocean and napping. One set of eyes always on the horizon.

At night, Go leaves their brother on watch and trudges to the other side of the rock, to give Zeff a few hours of sleep, and also to pester him about his secret plan. He clearly hates it, but apparently not enough to risk missing a ship, because he never forces them to leave, just dutifully ignores them and pretends he’s already asleep.

One week in, it starts to get difficult. Sanji’s stomach growls constantly, and he whimpers in pain, but Go forces themselves to ignore it and stick to the ration schedule. They have to keep him alive.

Their own stomach aches in hunger constantly, but they’ve trained themselves to dissociate when the worst pangs start, and come back to themselves when they pass.

On the thirteenth night, Go learns Zeff’s plan.

They can tell something’s off the moment they see his hunched silhouette. He doesn’t react to their approach like he normally does, bracing himself for their nagging. Instead, those shoulders heave strangely, and he doesn’t look up.

“Hey, sh*tty pirate,” Go calls.

No reaction.

Go steps closer. The air reeks of copper.

Their stomach clenches, and if it had even bile left in it, they would have retched.

“You f*cking didn’t.”

Behind Zeff’s coat is a truth they considered but didn’t seriously suspect. Until now.

His leg is severed, just below the knee, tied off with an absolutely pathetic tourniquet and bandage. The leg itself is nearby, and Go doesn’t need to see the details. They can guess, based on the blood around his mouth.

His eyes are rolled back in his head. He must have passed out at some point. But he’s still breathing.

Curses spill from their lips as they peel off their shirt, and get to work tying a second, tighter bandage. As they work, Zeff stirs awake.

“Why?” Go asks, not looking up from their dressing.

Zeff is silent.

“Because I would do this too. In a heartbeat. If I’m honest, this whole thing has my gears turning about ways to pull this off myself without Sanji noticing.”

“Shut up,” Zeff rumbles.

“Sanji is the only reason I have to live, you know. I’m not a person in the same way he is. I don’t have dreams or desires, and I have emotions so rarely it’s a f*cking event when it happens. But Sanji is different. He has a dream. He has a proper, functioning heart. And it’s fascinating. I would have checked out long ago, without him. As far as I see it, my only reason to keep going is to protect him. Make him happy.”

Go pulls the fabric tight, harsh and unkind.

“So that’s why I’d do it. But what I don’t understand, is why you’d do it.”

They finish and sit back on their heels, finally meeting his eyes.

“You don’t know us. You didn’t just give us some food, you gave us all of it. And you bent over backwards to keep me from trying this myself.” They nod at the stump leg. “So why the hell did you do this?”

Zeff stares evenly at them. Go doesn’t back down. Not this time. They hold.

“All Blue,” he eventually mutters.

Go blinks.

“…the f*ck?”

Zeff glares.

“That dream. The All Blue. It was mine, once. Before the world got to me.”

Go can’t imagine any answer in the world would have satisfied their question, but this one is so unexpected that they don’t even know how to scrutinize it.

“You… you were searching for All Blue? The fairytale sea?”

Zeff narrows his eyes.

“All that talk about him as the center of your universe, and you don’t even believe he’ll find it?”

Go bristles at the accusation.

“You don’t know sh*t about me,” they say lowly.

“I’ve met a million and one of you,” Zeff counters. “You’re no different than the ones who laugh. What do you think it’ll do to him, to learn that the one person on his side also thought he was stupid?”

Go recoils.

“Never. Speak about my brother like that.”

“I didn’t say anythin’ about him. I was talkin’ about you. You think it’s a fool’s errand.”

“That’s not-”

“Who gives a sh*t? If we believe with our whole hearts - in an uncharted world with devil fruits and the One Piece - that an ocean like that might exist, then what’s the point insistin’ we’re wrong? Would you rather him give up, and never look? Crush his spirit and end his adventure before it starts because you think it’s unlikely? You care that little for his happiness?”

“You-!”

“Shut up. I ate my own f*ckin’ leg for that boy, because I think he’ll find it one day. And if you aren’t even willin’ to entertain the idea that it might exist, then you don’t love him half as much as you think you do.”

Go is seething. They want to reach out and strangle him. They want to flee to the other side of the rock. They want to throw his leg into the ocean. They want him to survive and give Sanji hope.

They want, Go realizes. These are desires, and the emotions that come with them. Zeff managed to crack open their skull like the shell of an egg, and now all the human bits are leaking out. Human bits they didn’t even know they had.

Go winds back their hand and slaps Zeff across the face. Once, as hard as they can.

His head snaps to the side. A pink handprint fades in on his cheek.

“Get some sleep,” Go says coldly, and turns away to sit on the lip of the rock.

“Sanji,” they say the next morning. “Tell me about the All Blue again.”

On the twenty-fifth night, walking to Zeff’s side of the rock causes black spots to dance across their vision. Their head swims, and once they catch sight of his silhouette, they fall to their knees.

“-itty brat,” Zeff is saying.

They blink until their vision clears.

“Shut up, old man,” They mutter. There’s not enough left in them to give it heat.

On their hands and knees, they move closer, until they can properly see the horizon.

“How much left in the bag?” Zeff asks.

“He’ll last another three weeks.”

“Bullsh*t.”

Go sends him a nasty look.

“He’ll last another three weeks,” they repeat, firmly. “I made sure of it.”

“There ain’t enough for both of you-”

“I said I wouldn’t eat a bite. And I meant it.”

Silence falls for a moment.

“Not even willpower would get you this far, kid.”

Go doesn’t respond.

“You sh*tty brat, you really haven’t eaten anythin’.” Realization creeps into his voice.

Go braces for the interrogation. Questions about what they’re made of. Zeff has seen them fight with full strength. He’ll connect the dots. Something about them isn’t quite normal.

“But you’re at the end of your rope, now,” Zeff says, like he’s offering for them to refute it.

They blink, surprised.

“…Yeah.”

The two of them sit in silence, after that. Watching the eternally empty horizon.

Zeff dozes a few times, but doesn’t lie down to sleep like he normally does. Go can’t bring themselves to call him out on it. Being alone right now would feel too much like the cell.

The sun begins to peek over the distant waves.

“You won’t eat the damn food?” Zeff asks, eventually.

“Not a crumb.”

Zeff sighs, exhausted.

The world is starting to tilt more often. It’s getting harder to keep their eyes open. They don’t know how they’re going to make it back to Sanji. They wonder if maybe that’s for the best. He might try to force-feed them.

“Would you help him?” Go asks, voice frightfully small. “Make sure he gets a chance to look for the All-”

“Stop,” Zeff says forcefully. He turns his gaze upward. Takes a deep breath. “If you won’t eat his food, ‘least eat some of mine.”

Go flinches. Suddenly painfully lucid.

“Your…”

“Thought I could wait you out,” Zeff sighs. “But if you’re talkin’ All Blue, you really won’t eat that food. So just f*ckin’ take some. And shut the hell up.”

Go’s eyes burn. They realize this is what it feels like to cry. They’ve only ever done it once before.

Like a rabid dog, they lurch for the leg. No shame left. Not enough energy to muster it.

When they’re done, they use the tears to scrub their face clean, so that Sanji won’t know. And then they shuffle back to him.

Sanji knows something is off immediately.

“How much food does that bastard have left?” He asks, eyeing them closely.

“Too damn much,” They reply easily. “Son of a bitch probably still eats full bites.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sanji says, voice low. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not f*cking lying.”

“You are,” Sanji presses. “I know that if that bastard had any food left at all, you would have killed him for it. Or at least tried. So why the hell are you lying?”

Go is damningly silent.

“I’ll ask him myself, then,” He stands on shaky feet.

“Don’t.” Go grabs his arm.

“Is he dead?” Sanji shouts, whirling on them. “You think I’m too precious to see a corpse?”

Go tenses.

“Don’t kill for me and try to cover it up!” Sanji yells, looming over them. “I deserve to know my f*cking body count!”

“HE’S NOT DEAD!” Go shouts back, leaping to their feet. “I wouldn’t- I didn’t f*cking kill him!”

“Then what the f*ck is going on?” Sanji steps into their space. “Because I know you haven’t been eating our food!”

The blood freezes in their veins.

“What?”

“I wanted to trust you!” Sanji cries, on the verge of tears that he really can’t spare the water to form. “Maybe you were stealing from him, or for some reason he agreed to share. But you’re lying and you won’t even tell me why!”

“Sanji, please.” Go begs, eyes downcast.

“Tell me, or I’m going.”

“Please.”

Sanji wrenches his arm from their grasp. Stares at their pathetic, kneeling form. And grabs the bag of food. He pulls out a rotting apple core.

“I’ll drop it if you eat this,” he says, holding it out.

“No.” That core is the equivalent of four days, for him.

“Eat. It.” Sanji grits out.

“No.”

Sanji drops the bag and the core, and turns away, walking to the other side of the rock.

“Sanji!” They stumble after him.

“If you stop me,” Sanji says, not turning around. “I will never forgive you.”

Go staggers back, like they’ve been shot point-blank in the chest. Their limbs are suddenly million-pound weights, and they sink unwillingly to their knees. The sound of waves and retreating footsteps blend into a single high-pitched monotone. And their mind goes blissfully blank.

In the days after that, there are a lot of sensations, but nothing really reaches them. Movement in their line of sight, hands on their body, voices in the air.

Occasionally something touches their lips, and they clamp their teeth shut, refusing entry. This is what they must do, they feel it in their bones, though they hardly understand why.

Sometimes a sensation registers as Sanji, but they can’t grasp it well enough to surface. And to surface… who knows what would happen then. Every instinct tells them to stay here, stay safe.

So time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. They’re hardly conscious enough for that to matter. The little amount of their body they can feel hurts, so they lie down and close their eyes.

Chapter 7: Saved

Chapter Text

“-ease. Please, Go, you have to wake up-”

Sanji.

Their eyes fly open. Bright fluorescent lights, creaking wood, and the sharp smell of antiseptic assault their senses.

“Don’t sit up!” Someone shouts in their ear.

Go sits upright on a bed, staring directly at Sanji peeking over the foot; unkempt, malnourished, and sobbing, but unquestionably alive.

A large hand touches their chest, and Go instinctively backhands its owner. A full-grown man in scrubs goes flying, and crashes into a glass case of pill bottles across the room. It shatters.

“Go!” Sanji cries, “He’s a doctor, it’s okay. He just wants you to lie back down.”

They stare owlishly at him. Their abdomen hurts. Their mind is swimming. All they can remember is that rock. Starving. Sanji shouting…

“-o! GO!”

They blink and Sanji is in their face.

“Can you hear me?” He asks, concerned.

Hesitantly, Go nods.

“You-? Good!” Sanji sags in relief, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “That’s so good. Go, I need you to lay back, okay?”

They nod, and comply.

“Great. Thanks, Go. The doctor wants to come back over, now. Is that okay?”

They glance at the man they sent flying. He’s hovering nervously, a few feet away. They give a curt nod at him.

He rushes over, immediately snatches an IV and plunges it into the crook of their arm.

“We’re on a ship, Go. A ship passed by. They saved us.”

Saved. Sanji’s alive. They’re alive.

The old man.

Go moves their mouth, but their throat seizes up. Their lips catch on the first letter. No sound comes out.

Zeff, They try to say. But it’s frozen. Even when they consciously try to move their mouth, it won’t budge.

Sanji, They attempt. Still frozen.

HELP! It won’t form. Nothing.

This is a nightmare. This can’t be real. They- they must be dead.

Go shakes their head viciously, panic rising. Fear grips them, and it’s worrying how easily they accept that. They’re feeling fear. They do that now.

“Go, you need to breathe,” Sanji says, clearly trying to stay calm, but panic inching into his voice. “Can you hear me?”

They nod.

“Good. Can you speak?”

They shake their head frantically, heart rate spiking again.

“It’s okay! That’s okay!” Sanji grabs their hand and squeezes. “You don’t need to speak. Just listen to me. You have to listen.”

Go stares at him, eyes wide.

“Nod if you’re listening,” Sanji orders.

They nod.

“The IV is helping, but you need to eat. Your stomach is messed up, it needs something in it. No one could get your mouth open.”

They nod. That… that’s vaguely familiar.

“I’m gonna get you food,” Sanji says. Go grips his hand and shakes their head manically.

“…No?” Sanji asks.

They squeeze his hand.

Sanji stares at it. Then at their face.

“You don’t want me to leave,” he realizes.

Go nods in relief. They can still communicate.

Sanji shares a pleading look with the doctor, who sighs but slips out of the room.

Now that they’re alone, Sanji climbs up onto the bed and lays down next to them. Still holding their hand.

“Told you you have emotions, sh*thead.” Sanji mumbles.

Despite it all, Go snorts. Their stomach cramps like something is trying to rip out of them, and they instantly regret it.

“Was that a f*cking laugh?” Sanji sits up, bewildered.

Still groaning in pain, Go nods.

“I knew you had emotions. I f*cking knew it. You’re so f*cking stupid.”

They groan louder.

The doctor returns with a truly pitiful bowl of soggy, unseasoned rice, the size of Go’s palm. With shaking hands, they take it, but they don’t eat it just yet. They catch Sanji’s eye.

“Eat. The damn. Rice,” Sanji says testily.

They glance between the bowl and Sanji, suspiciously.

“Are you-?” Sanji looks bewildered. “Are you f*cking serious? We’ve been on this ship for a full week, asshole! I’m eating solids now! Your stomach is literally digesting itself! Eat!”

Satisfied, they shovel the rice down in a movement faster than most humans can see with the naked eye. It’s amazing. The greatest meal they’ve ever had. Tears pool in their eyes, and it hurts, but it makes them feel so, so alive.

“We were about to break your teeth, you know,” Sanji mutters. “To get a feeding tube in. Since you bit the sh*tty geezer’s thumb to the bone when he tried to pry your jaw open.”

Go freezes at the mention of Zeff.

“What?” Sanji asks, confused.

Go inclines their head, giving him murder eyes.

“Oh! Zeff is fine!” Sanji says, holding his hands up. “I forgot you weren’t, uh, awake.”

Dissociating. They must have been conscious but catatonic when the ship arrived.

“He’s… his stump is healing, so he can’t leave his bed. No matter what he thinks. sh*tty old man.”

They nod. It’s a relief. Zeff is tough, but… they’re missing a lot of time. They couldn’t be sure.

“You know,” Sanji says, a little too casual. “He’s going to use his treasure to open a floating restaurant. A pretty big one, sounds like. And he’s so old and decrepit he’s probably going to need a ton of help.”

Go rolls their eyes and pulls Sanji into a hug. It kinda hurts but they don’t even care. They nod into his shoulder.

Of course we’ll join him, idiot.

The ship docks a few days later, and they’re all to be carted off to a proper hospital.

Go still hasn’t been able to talk. The doctor thinks it’s stress-induced mutism, and Go’s own knowledge corroborates the diagnosis. They also think it’s bullsh*t that as soon as they get proper emotions, it hits them so hard they lose their voice instead.

When the doctor comes in to wheel them off the ship, Go snatches him by the collar and pulls him in, threateningly. The man’s eyes are huge and fearful.

With the chalk that Sanji gave them, they quickly draw on the railing of the bed.

♂ / ♀ ?

They shove the doctor’s face towards it. He frowns.

“You- you’re asking… about gender?”

They roll their eyes. Point to themselves, and add:

Told? Z? Hospital?

“Told… oh.” The doctor blinks. “Your deformed sex,” he says dumbly.

They nod impatiently. They know this guy saw their junk. They woke up with a urinary catheter in.

“I haven’t said anything,” The doctor says. “To anyone. I don’t know who Zeff is to you, and I follow a code of patient confidentiality.”

They circle “Hospital?”

“I just said an adult and two children were coming with severe malnourishment,” He assures them. “And amputation recovery, I suppose. But nothing else.”

They nod, slowly. But they don’t release him yet. They need to figure out how to ask this without words.

For the hell of it, they try to speak. But as usual, they lock up.

“Do you… want the chalkboard?” The doctor asks.

Go scowls, but releases him.

He brings over the little board that he’d been letting them borrow. Go quickly scribbles the question on it.

Common practice here to correct intersex? Or kill?

The doctor goes pale.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispers. Go’s stomach drops. “I’m sorry, I’m from a small town on a small island, I’ve only ever heard stories about your condition.”

Go nods. Right. A visibly intersex person is, statistically, as rare as a devil fruit.

At least this guy didn’t tell the place in advance. They’ll just have to watch the doctors like a hawk, and ask Sanji not to leave them alone while they’re unconscious.

Go’s read a lot of case studies on corrective surgery. Well over half of them end in serious damage, because they prioritize aesthetics over the patient’s health. And those are the ones successful enough to be published.

They wipe the chalkboard clean and wave the doctor away. He looks pitying, which is stupid because this is just Go’s life, and it’s not like he’s going to do anything to prevent the forced correction if it is common practice. Instead, he lifts them into a chair and wheels them off the ship, which is also stupid because Go could probably walk for themselves now with their insane healing rate.

Sanji and Zeff are already on the docks. Holy hell, do they look good in the daylight. All three of them are still emaciated as sh*t, but they’re no longer skeletons, and even just having some energy back gives them another dimension of life.

Sanji stands next to Zeff’s wheelchair, stupidly large bag of treasure at his feet. He smiles ridiculously wide as Go approaches. They still don’t really do facial expressions naturally, but they consciously quirk a half-smile on his behalf.

The doctor releases them and turns to Zeff.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany-”

“Don’t touch my f*cking chair!” He snaps.

The doctor holds his hands up in surrender.

“I only meant as a guide!”

“I can follow directions, piss off.” Zeff crosses his arms.

The doctor sighs and crosses his arms back. “Fine. Our ship leaves in two days if you need anything,” he says, looking at Go from the corner of his eye.

So he’s sending them into potential mutilation, but if it actually happens they can run back to him. Great.

“We won’t. Thanks,” Zeff says gruffly, hoisting the bag into his lap. The doctor grimaces as it settles on his bandages. “Let’s go, aubergines.”

As one last insult, Go hops out of the chair the doctor spent 10 minutes carrying through the ship, and walks down the pier next to their brother.

Chapter 8: Building a Home

Chapter Text

Once they’re out of the marina, Zeff wheels the chair around to face them both.

“Either of you actually sick enough that you still need a hospital?” He asks. “If I keep you fed?”

A wave of relief washes over Go. They were strung tighter than a bowstring, and only realize it now, as all the tension bleeds out of them.

They shake their head immediately. Maybe a little too immediately, because Zeff squints a little.

“Hell no,” Sanji agrees.

“Great. Then we’re not doin’ that sh*t,” Zeff says, turning the chair. “We’re goin’ to the bank, then I’m makin’ a call.”

Go and Sanji were once royals of an entire country. Wealth isn’t a foreign concept to them. But the thing about being royalty is that you never see the money itself. It’s all in the stuff, in the walls, in the servants. No need to carry around what the world already knows you have.

So when the teller wheels out a disgustingly tall mountain of belli stacks in a literal wagon, it’s enough to stun Go speechless, even if their voice were working normally. The number on the individual bills is higher than the sum of every single paycheck they made on the Orbit.

Sanji is similarly dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open.

“Apologies, this is all we have in the vault at the moment.” The teller bows to Zeff. “We’ve sent a request to our parent branch for more, so you can return next week for the rest of your payout.”

Go chokes.

Zeff storms out of the den den mushi shop, grumbling.

“Long distance, my ass. Stupid f*ckin’ sh*thead can’t even get me a snail to Paradise.”

Apparently, none of the snails on this island can reach whoever Zeff wanted to call.

“Now I have to settle for some two-bit shipwright, probably can’t even build a real kitchen.”

Go and Sanji ignore him as they walk behind his wheelchair, flanking the wagon of cash that he attached to the back axle. Occasionally, it hits a bump, and a brick of a few thousand belli falls off, so whoever’s closest has to snatch it up and put it back on the stack. It’s a bit like a game. Go catches them out of the air every time.

Zeff kicks open the doors to a fancy hotel with his good leg and wheels inside. He grabs two stacks of belli off the top of the mountain and throws them on the counter.

“I want a room and unlimited access to your kitchens for the next two months,” he demands.

Sanji had mentioned that the old man was a chef. But he certainly never explained that he was a f*cking Chef.

Zeff is in the kitchen for exactly ten minutes, half of which is spent trying to fit the chair through a tight spot, and then the best omelet Go has ever had in their life is on the table in front of them. Eating it is nothing short of a religious experience after a week of nothing but congee.

They open their mouth to swear but nothing comes out, and they’re almost okay with that, because it means they can eat more of the omelet sooner.

There’s not even anything in it. It’s a single egg and maybe some seasoning. But the texture is immaculate, and the flavor is just right. It’s better than any of the fancy crap that’s ever been served in Judge’s goddamn castle.

Sanji takes a bite of his own, then strings together the exact set of cusses Go is thinking.

“Holy f*cking sh*t, you sh*tty bastard. What the f*ck?”

Zeff looks unimpressed. Sanji shovels the rest into his mouth without stopping to breathe.

“Please, you have to teach me how to make this. Please.”

“It’s a f*ckin’ omelet. You cook an egg.”

“sh*tty geezer!” Sanji shouts. “You know that’s not what I meant! I need to make it like this. I need to make it right.”

Zeff sniffs.

Sanji falls to the floor, on his hands and knees, forehead lowered. “Please! Teach me how to cook!”

“Get off the f*ckin’ floor!” Zeff barks, hauling him up by the forearm. “This kitchen is a disgrace, that tile’s filthy. Wash your damn hands and you can watch me make mine.”

Sanji’s face splits into a massive grin and he trips over himself to race to the sink. Zeff watches him go, his mustache twitching upward the tiniest amount.

Go raises an eyebrow. Zeff catches it and puts on a scowl, just for them.

They grin back.

Sanji makes the same omelet over and over and over again for a full two weeks.

Go f*cking hates eggs now. They’re going to kill every chicken in the world so that they never have to eat an omelet again. Every bird too, while they’re at it. f*cking eggs.

Zeff found someone to start working on the restaurant. They have a few weeks to kill until there’s enough of it to float, and then they can officially live on an active construction site. Hooray.

Sanji finally stops obsessing over that omelet. Thank f*ck. Zeff is teaching him the basics all over again - chopping, peeling, whatever - but Go can already tell the way he does it is nothing like the cooks on the Orbit. Sanji drinks up the instructions like ambrosia.

He always seems to be cleaning too. Mopping floors, scrubbing pans, wiping counters. Zeff definitely has him touching soap more than actual food. But Go knows this one by now. He’s learning a lot just by being in proximity.

Zeff strictly forbids them (emphasized with kicks) from going into the kitchens while the hotel staff is there, so all the cooking lessons are at night. Go thinks the hotel should really pay Sanji a janitorial wage, because he always leaves that place cleaner than he found it.

In daylight hours, Go reads psychology books and learns cuss words in sign language. Then they learn a few normal words too.

They’re starting to notice they do like reading about psychology over doing menial labor. And they would rather do just about anything else over cooking. Which means Go officially has interests. It’s strange.

Oh, and Zeff gets a peg leg. The only real difference it makes is that his kicks hurt more.

Go finds the plans for the restaurant when Zeff forgets to put them away. He’s calling it the Baratie.

‘Is that a f*cking fish?’ They sign, staring at the exterior mockup. Their motions are still clunky and slow, but they’re getting the hang of it.

“My treasure. My restaurant.”

Sure. But that won’t stop Go from adjusting the plans a little to add a private suite and bathroom for them and Sanji. There’s no way in hell Go will bunk with random cooks on a ship that they have to help build by hand.

They make it to the glorified raft that will one day be the Baratie.

Go has to adjust from delectable, expert-chef-cooked meals to Sanji’s best on a hot plate, because Zeff is always too busy overseeing construction to make anything.

Omelets are immediately banned. They actually planned to throw the whole carton of eggs overboard, but Sanji starts screaming about wasting food and their use as a binder for most things he knows how to cook. Go allows him to keep the eggs on the condition that they are totally unrecognizable in anything he puts on their plate.

‘Chemistry purposes only,’ they decree.

“I don’t know that sign, dumbass!”

Go helps with the construction too, actually. Mostly because they want a functioning bathroom on board as soon as possible.

As a pirate, Zeff assumes that everyone (including the construction crew) is totally fine with taking a piss or a dump over the side of the ship. Everyone on board is a man, after all.

Except for Go. But Zeff doesn’t know that. It hasn’t really come up, and Go sure as hell isn’t going to mention it. They’re in the business of letting people assume.

Their discomfort with the toilet situation isn’t that they’re shy, it’s that they’re paranoid. Go doesn’t know sh*t about these workers, and Zeff has only vetted them for their carpentry skills, not their personalities. If one of them turns a corner and sees Go with their not-quite-a-dick out, who knows what they’ll do. Who they’ll tell.

So they dutifully help with the plumbing and make Sanji look out for them every time they need to piss.

“You know, if you tell the sh*tty geezer, he’ll get the restrooms done faster,” Sanji says one night. He’s been pulled out of his sleeping bag at 2 AM for the third night in a row so Go can take a leak.

‘Don’t know sign words for it,’ they say, dodging the option.

“I’d be there to help, asshole,” Sanji mutters.

They shrug, noncommittal.

Maybe Sanji is right. Maybe he’d redirect more than one guy at a time to it if he knew.

But there’s also a chance that Zeff decides he didn’t sign up to take care of something like Go. That he agreed to feed two boys and nothing more. Judge once implied that any sailor would throw Go overboard once they learned the truth. Why wouldn’t a seasoned pirate?

They can’t f*ck this up for Sanji. He couldn’t find a better mentor than Zeff. Or even a mentor half as good.

Thankfully, Sanji lets the subject drop, and the restrooms are finished in just over a week.

Chapter 9: Training Montage

Chapter Text

Construction on the Baratie is finally finished. The restaurant is fully stocked. There’s even employees now, a bunch of crew-less pirates that Zeff is whipping into shape like a drill sergeant during a truly hellish two-week onboarding.

To Go’s prideful delight, Sanji knows more about working a kitchen than 90% of them, and he’s getting better by the day. Zeff’s current sous-chef is best described as “passable,” and Go can see it in the geezer’s eyes that he’s praying for the day Sanji is experienced enough to hold the title, so he can punt this poor sap back to the line cooks.

Zeff is also a food-brained moron who didn’t think to train any f*cking waiters. Oh, he hired them. It’s clear some random brain cell was stimulated enough to recognize he needed a waitstaff. But thinking beyond that was apparently too much for him to handle.

On the second day of Zeff’s kitchen bootcamp, Go wanders into the dining room to find the set of five thugs that he managed to bully into the job all sitting around. Three of them are playing poker. One has his feet on the tablecloth.

The Baratie’s grand opening is in 12 days.

Go strolls over to the man with his feet on the table, grabs him by the front of his shirt, and hurls him across the room like he weighs nothing.

“Oi! What the f*ck!”

All the so-called waiters jump to their feet, cussing Go out with varying levels of creativity.

The one they tossed stumbles to his feet, dazed and pissed, and charges at them.

Go steps casually to the side and slams their elbow into the back of his neck, spiking him into the ground.

One of the guy’s poker buddies throws a punch, but Go catches the fist with one hand. Their brothers hit harder and faster when they were three. If Baratie plans to serve hardened pirates and marines alike, as is Zeff’s vision, these guys won’t last a week.

Another one tries to (poorly) kick at them, so Go readjusts their grip on the punch-happy guy to his wrist and flings him into the new assailant, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

At this point the door to the kitchen slams open with the violent force of Zeff’s peg leg.

“THE HELL’S THIS RACKET?” He roars, striking fear into all the grown men.

Go glances boredly at the three idiots they laid out, then gestures mildly to the dirty tablecloth.

‘Your waiters are undisciplined and pathetic,’ they sign to him.

“I’m a chef, not a maître d’,” Zeff growls.

‘They’ll get their asses handed to them before they throw out a single unruly customer,’ Go replies, unimpressed. ‘Probably spill food, too.’

sh*tty geezer rolls his eyes. But the mention of wasted food is enough to actually get through the thick wall of old-man-ear-hair to reach his brain.

“Train them, then,” Zeff says dismissively, “And if they don’t listen, kick ‘em out. They can swim home.” Then he turns heel back into the kitchen.

That was maybe the rudest f*cking way he could have asked.

The idiots have peeled themselves off the floor, and all five waiters stand nearby like lost lambs. The ones with bruises are glaring venomously.

‘Anyone sign?’ Go asks them.

They all stare blankly back. Of course.

Go huffs and holds up a hand, ordering them to wait here. They grab a stick of chalk and a slate from their room and hold it out to their new flock of morons.

Names, it reads.

Rizuki, Diswan, Wasp, Imakura, and Roth Randy.

Amaretto Rizuki introduces himself first. He wasn’t playing poker, so Go doesn’t immediately hate him. He’s a compact guy - short and muscular, spiky black hair, nasty scar on his chin. He didn’t join the fight, but Go can tell from the cut of his arms that he at least has boxing experience. And probably hits like a truck if his form is decent. Mentally, they designate him as a candidate for host. He seems to have the firepower and discipline to bounce if needed.

Rifle Diswan - one of the poker louts - is tall, dark, and thick. Clean-shaved face, buzzed head, resting angry face. Wrestler’s build of fat and muscle, perfect for fighting with weight. They’ll need to teach him to use it, though. In the fight, he threw that dogsh*t punch.

Wasp. Wiry and thin, face exactly like his name. Garish yellow streaks in black hair. The one who put his feet on the table and his name on Go’s sh*tlist.

Kane Imakura is the third poker player who tried that sh*tty kick. He’s maybe sixteen, but his decent muscle, and heavy scarring suggest his youth isn’t inexperience. His arms are unnaturally long, with an extra elbow joint. Go hasn’t seen anything like it before, but he seems to have full range of motion, so it’s probably not a birth defect.

Roth Randy - the other non-combatant - is skinny in the starving-until-recently way. Uneven sandy hair and freckles. When he introduces himself it’s with a heavy lisp and backwater accent, all his teeth either missing or riddled with holes, and he’s smiling. By far the only one who looks like they’re here voluntarily.

As each guy says their name, Go gives them a sign name. Just their initials, easy to remember. Though they have a feeling they’ll just end up pointing 99% of the time.

Go also writes their name in chalk, and shows their own name sign.

Roth Randy is the only one who tries to replicate the signs. He even says “Nice ta meechya!” after Go gives their own. He’s officially their star student.

Rizuki at least nods and seems to file away the information. The rest of them just look f*cking bored.

Go will just have to beat respect into them, then.

Eight days into training, and somehow none of them have quit. Go’s not sure if it’s out of spite for being schooled by a mute eleven-year-old, or if they just don’t want to swim to land.

(Except for Roth Randy. He’s obviously happy to be here.)

Go teaches them to fight. Corrects their forms and spars with them. They really hope that Germa’s fighting style isn’t super distinct, because that’s the only training they have outside of Zeff’s leg-only techniques.

Rizuki doesn’t need the pointers. Go beats him every time they fight, but it takes some effort, so he graduates from combat school on day one and helps them train the others. He’s a godsend.

Diswan gets the hang of it quickly enough. Once he realizes Go isn’t just the owner’s sh*thead kid, he’s willing to listen, and he seems to even enjoy learning to use his full bulk to fight. Go caught him secretly practicing late one night, making sound effects with his mouth.

Wasp hates their guts as much as Go hates his, so they leave his training to Rizuki. They do still assess him daily for an excuse to kick his ass, though.

Imakura has clearly been in a sh*t-ton of dangerous situations, but never in a real fight. He’s got muscle, but doesn’t know how to use his triple-segmented arms beyond lifting things. Go spends a lot of time with him trying to piece together the best way to throw a punch, before they realize those arms were made for grappling. Go shows him every hold they know, a few they’ve only heard of, and then helps him make up his own. He’s going to be great at dragging people out of the restaurant.

Roth Randy… has a lot of enthusiasm. Honestly, he’s not remotely strong, bad at dodging, and even worse at keeping good form. They’re a little worried about Roth Randy. But he’s such a nice guy that Go will personally beat the sh*t out of anyone who tries to start anything with him. With prejudice.

Combatively, they’ll be passable by the opening.

Hospitality lessons are a bit more precarious.

Go starts with showing them how to lay out the china and silverware. Holy sh*t are they glad they did this early, because their flock of morons is positively bewildered by the full place setting.

“I didn’t know this many different pieces existed,” Diswan whispers. Imakura nods in agreement, eyes wide.

“An’ this all’s fer wun guy?” Roth Randy asks, brow furrowed.

“No, dipsh*t, there’s three of everything,” Wasp says, both rude and wrong.

Go smacks him upside the head. As an instructor.

“Ow! What the f*ck, brat?”

Go ignores him and points to Roth Randy, nodding. They stick up one finger to indicate, yes, this is the place setting for a single person.

“No sh*t?” Rizuki says, face pinched in distress.

“There’s no way anyone actually uses all these, right?” Imakura asks, “Like, the extra plates and bowls are if you want more food, I guess, yeah, but three spoons?”

“Five forks,” Diswan rumbles.

“Five forks!” Imakura agrees.

Go, having grown up in a castle and worked on a cruise ship, has seen more meals eaten with this table setting than not. Though, thanks to the few days they had to cover a sick Sanji’s dish duty, they can’t help but agree with the sentiment that it’s a bit much.

“Could be beneficial.” Wasp laces his hands behind his head. “If they don’t use everything, we can just clear the visibly dirty stuff and have the next customer use what’s left.”

Go smacks him again.

Twenty-four hours before opening, Go realizes that the sh*tty geezer never gave his waitstaff their shift schedule. Five minutes after that realization, they find out that he never even made one.

‘YOU OWN A GODDAMN RESTAURANT, YOU WASHED-UP OLD f*ck!’ Go’s hands are flying, signing so fast Zeff probably only barely understands them, ‘How the hell do you expect them to show up for shifts if they don’t f*cking have any?’

Zeff just looks irritated. He’s watching three boiling pots, two sizzling pans, and Go’s pissed-off hands.

“They show up in the mornin’ and leave when we close,” he grunts.

Go’s eye twitches.

‘Every single day?’ They ask, hoping he realizes how insane he sounds. ‘No lunch?’

“They can grab as much as they want off busted plates,” Zeff says, “No one goes hungry.”

Go doesn’t even like their flock of morons, but that doesn’t stop them from jumping onto Zeff’s back and strangling him with their bare hands.

Go makes the waitstaff a schedule. A real schedule, with shifts, not Zeff’s work-every-day bullsh*t.

Four people on duty, one on-call, one off. And because Go knows it would be a disaster otherwise, they’re supervising every shift that doesn’t already have Rizuki.

First day, however, everyone works. Zeff has invited every pirate crew he knows but never got around to slaughtering, all the big-name Marines in the East Blue, and even sent out an advertisem*nt with the weekend’s News Coo for a respectable radius. It’s going to be a full house. And probably a bloodbath.

Go writes up copies of the schedule at a table near their flock of morons, who they have doing one-handed push-ups while balancing serving trays full of glassware. (Roth Randy can’t do one-handed push-ups yet, so Go lets him do regular ones with the tray balanced on his head.)

Sanji comes out with lunch, various test dishes for tomorrow’s menu. He cheerily places a specific one in front of Go, which means he made it and not one of the thugs. But before he leaves he pauses, peering over their shoulder.

“Is that a schedule?” He asks.

Go nods, adjusting the ruler.

“Thank f*ck. I thought the sh*tty geezer was just gonna make us work every day of the week.”

Go freezes. Gently puts down their pen. Turns gradually towards Sanji.

‘You’re telling me,’ they sign slowly, deliberately, ‘that Zeff hasn’t given his cooks a shift schedule?’

Sanji grows wary at their use of Zeff’s sign name instead of an insult.

“…No?” He says carefully. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

‘Get him out here right now,’ they sign calmly. ‘Tell him I fell over dead, or that I dumped food into the ocean. I don’t care. Get him out here.’

Unfortunately, Go fails their first ever attempt at premeditated murder. Which means they’re up until 1 AM creating a shift schedule that juggles twenty-six cooks.

According to Sanji, prep-work starts at 5 AM, and clean up ends around 10 PM. Zeff was planning to work his cooks 119 hours a week with no breaks. Less than 7 hours to sleep between shifts.

Staring at the finished schedule, Go realizes this flimsy piece of paper they made is the only thing saving the sh*tty geezer from being killed in the world’s most justified mutiny.

They lean back and scrub their hands over their eyes. This is the old man’s dream. He only expected his cooks to work on 7 hours of sleep every night because he’ll be getting 3, and that’s worth it for him to keep Baratie afloat. He forgets that not everyone lives and breathes kitchen grease like him and Sanji.

It’s truly concerning that Go finds the trait a bit endearing. There’s a weird warmth spreading in their chest, and Go furrows their brow. It’s kind of familiar.

They jerk upright. The cell. When Sanji gave them his clothes.

Love.

That… was love. Even back then.

A long long time ago, Sora told them that love is taking care of someone. When they ask, but especially when they don’t. Prioritizing their happiness, even at expense to yourself.

Go looks down at this schedule that took them six hours to make, at the bruises on their arms from whipping the waiters into shape. They think about bandaging a stump leg on a desolate rock. Things that Zeff never asked of them - never would - that they did anyway. Because they wanted to.

...Huh.

It’s much too late to stay up. Sanji started snoring two hours ago. So they crawl into bed, wrap themselves in the warm covers, and focus on that beautiful feeling thrumming in their chest as they drift off to sleep.

They’re woken up two hours later by a knock on the door. Sanji groans. The restaurant doesn’t open until 11 AM, and Go doesn’t plan to be downstairs before 8, so they roll over and pull the blankets over their head.

Another knock, louder.

“Urrrgh,” Sanji groans again, floorboards creaking as he gets up. Opens the door.

“sh*tty geezer?” He mumbles, voice slurred from sleep.

“Can I come in?” Zeff asks.

Okay, what the hell. The old man has never asked permission for anything, and definitely never set foot in their room. This is weird enough for Go to fully sit up and see what’s going on.

Sanji’s rubbing his eye, staring at Zeff holding two black bags over his shoulder.

…Body bags.

‘Who did you kill?’ Go asks, suddenly very awake. There’s not many people Zeff would bother putting in a body bag over just dumping unceremoniously into the sea.

Their stomach drops. The bags are flat, no bodies yet. Why would he-

“Can’t see your hands in the dark, aubergine,” Zeff says, letting himself in.

Sanji flicks on a small lamp. “The hell are you doing here at three in the morning?” He grumbles.

‘What’s with the bags?’ Go asks, eyeing them warily.

“Woke up early to go prep,” Zeff says, his voice strange. Is he- is he f*cking nervous right now? “Got you brats somethin’ for the openin’ day.”

He… got them body bags? Is this some kind of weird threat?

Zeff places the bags down on Sanji’s bed and unzips them. Inside-

Oh.

Go throws off the blankets and pads over to the mattress, next to Sanji.

Inside are two immaculately-tailored three-piece suits.

One of them is a navy blue double-breast, with eight golden buttons reminiscent of a chef’s coat, over a powder blue pinstripe shirt and matching pocket square monogrammed with an “S.” A navy blue tie is draped over the top, with a subtle swirl-patterned texture that illuminates in the flickering lantern light.

The other suit is single-breast, fully matte black, with two metallic green-and-purple buttons like beetle carapace and a matching bolo-tie pendant. Tucked into the chest pocket is a beetle-colored pen and a black leather-bound waiter’s notebook with “Baratie” stippled in the center.

Go’s breath catches. The suits are gorgeous, and so… personal. Everything - the cuts, the colors, the ties, even the contents of the pockets - is so perfectly and wholly complimentary to Sanji and Go respectively. Zeff commissioned these. And it must have taken months. But the pen and notebook - Go only started training the waiters two weeks ago. That had to be a rush job. Which means that in the midst of training two-dozen chefs and preparing for the grand opening of his lifelong dream, Zeff took the time to special-order a matching pen and notebook, and have it shipped out to the middle of the ocean. Just for them.

Their eyes sting and their vision blurs. Big, hot tears roll down their face.

“sh*t, forgot the damn shoes,” Zeff swears, turning towards the door. “They’re in-”

He doesn’t even make it a full step before Go and Sanji are on him, hugging and hiding their sniffles in his apron.

Chapter 10: Grand Opening

Chapter Text

When they descend the stairs in their new suit at 8 AM, precious schedules in hand, the entire crew, both kitchen and waitstaff, are gathered in the dining room. Sanji notices them first and absolutely beams with pride, causing that warm love to stir in their chest once again.

The moment is immediately shattered by a wolf whistle from the direction of the flock. Go whips their head to see Imakura and Wasp both looking particularly smarmy, and decides they’re going to assign both of them all the tables with marines and children.

“Look’n’ gud, boss!” Roth Randy calls, totally genuine, and that’s why he’s Go’s favorite.

They playfully bump into Sanji’s shoulder en route to the waitstaff, and he tries to trip them, but they hop over it easily.

“You’re late,” Zeff rumbles as they pass by.

Go flips him the bird over their shoulder. They’re actually an hour early. But he knew they would be.

There’s another few minutes of chatter, during which Go stands on a chair to fix both Diswan and Roth Randy’s ties. The waiters’ uniforms are all-black; shoes, slacks, button-up, waistcoat, and tie. The style is sort of a simpler version of Go’s suit, without the jacket, colorful accessories, or tailored fit. The old man definitely just bought the staff ones in bulk. Imakura’s sleeves are tastefully rolled up on his second forearm to disguise the fact that they’re much too short.

The sound of Zeff’s peg leg pounds on the deck like a gavel.

TAP TAP TAP

Silence falls immediately. Everyone turns to him.

“We open in three hours,” he says, gaze sweeping over the men. “It’ll be chaos. You’re gonna sweat. Don’t get it on the food.”

A few of the chefs chuckle nervously.

“This restaurant is for any sailor who’s ever been starvin’ at sea. Every kind and creed, they all got the same need for food. Anyone who sets foot on my deck hungry, they’ll be fed. And you’re gonna feed ‘em.”

He nods, as if deeming his own words satisfactory.

“This is neutral ground,” He continues, moving on to more practical matters. “Marines and pirates alike are gonna wanna start sh*t. Our waiters won’t let ‘em-”

“Woo!” Imakura hollers. Rizuki elbows him.

“-but you should still be prepared to fight. Either to back them up or to teach a lesson to any big-shot pirate crews who think this ship is easy pickin’s.”

“BOOOO!” The room jeers, flexing and pounding their fists. Sanji kicks the air a few times. It’s adorable.

“Damn right,” Zeff sniffs, thumbing his nose to cover a grin. “It’s all-hands on deck today, but startin’ tomorrow you’ll get proper shifts. Go’s postin’ it over the bust station, and if anyone complains I’ll kick your ass, capisce?”

The staff grumbles and nods.

“Alright. Everyone get your asses in gear. It’s time to cook.”

The whole room erupts into raucous cheers. Grown men are grinning and patting each other on the back. Zeff turns away and heads to the kitchen, Sanji close on his heels, and the rest of the cooks fall in behind them.

With the room cleared, they turn to their flock of morons.

“Now you give us your speech,” Wasp says.

Go kicks him in the nuts.

Honestly, opening day goes way better than they expected.

There’s only a total of 19 altercations, which is just under two per hour for 11-9 PM. And no one dies, weirdly enough. Though Diswan gets his nose broken and Roth Randy loses (yet another) tooth, which Go breaks a Commodore’s hand over.

By far, the most unexpected thing to come out of the day is that Go has a newfound begrudging respect for Wasp. (Puke.)

Petty to a fault, Go assigned him and Imakura as many tables with marines or kids as they could justify. Wasp was his usual sh*thead self, but Imakura started to come back to the host stand quieter by the hour. They assumed it was exhaustion, and didn’t give it a second thought.

And then around 4pm, Wasp yanks Go into the busting station by the bolo tie.

They’re already winding up to give him more missing teeth than Roth Randy when he spits out: “Truce!”

Go freezes their fist half an inch from his face. They pull it back slightly, but don’t drop it. Listening.

“The marines are treating Imakura like filth, and he’s too chickensh*t to tell anyone,” Wasp snaps. “Spilling on purpose, calling him slurs. Too petty to kick ass over.”

Go blinks and lowers their fist. They… hadn’t noticed. But it makes sense, Imakura is visibly different - apparently a different race, if he’s getting called slurs. They’re a f*cking asshole for throwing him to the marines.

“Either give him better tables or I behead a customer,” Wasp says, unceremoniously dropping them and heading back out onto the floor.

They fix it immediately. Imakura gets civilians and the kids instead. Turns out he really gets on with children, being sixteen and all. He lets a little blonde girl that reminds Go of Sanji hang off his tray arm like it’s a monkey bar.

Wasp is still on their sh*tlist, but they no longer despise the guy.

By the time the final drunken customer is carried out the door, Go is exhausted. Which is impressive, because they have superhuman stamina. They can’t imagine how the flock is feeling.

But the first day is done. An overwhelming success, even. And Zeff’s lifelong dream of owning a successful floating restaurant is officially achieved.

The waitstaff clears the last of the dishes, changes the tablecloths, mops the floor, and compares their tips. Go spent the entire time seating people at the host stand, so they’re pleasantly surprised to see how much everyone got, considering East Blue isn’t a tipping culture and half their customers are pirates. Rizuki got the most by a margin, which makes sense because he’s efficient, polite, and kinda hot in an athletic way. Followed up by Diswan, Imakura, Wasp, then Roth Randy in last. (Of course Roth Randy just happily praises everyone else’s hauls, without an ounce of jealousy. Go would tip him forty billion belli if they could.)

At some point, Sanji sneaks out of the kitchen and slips a bottle of aged whiskey on the table.

‘From sh*tty geezer,’ He signs to Go, so that their flock doesn’t notice he’s there. They grin.

Eventually, Wasp looks up from helping Roth Randy count his money and does a double take.

“Holy sh*t, that’s real booze!” He snatches it up.

“There’s a tag,” Rizuki notices. “‘For the waitstaff, if they survived.’”

Go snorts. Old man’s sense of humor is alright.

Excited, they all head upstairs to party and drink in the bunk room. Go points at the schedule one last time before they go.

“I’ll make sure everyone is awake for work in the morning,” Rizuki agrees.

“Not me!” Imakura cheers, “I have the day off tomorrow! Let’s get drunk!”

And they make themselves scarce.

Go wanders into the kitchen, where final cleanup has just finished. All that’s left is Sanji and Zeff, pouring over the geezer’s recipe notebook, adjusting menus for the rest of the week based on the ingredients left.

Sanji looks up with a toothy smile and runs to meet them halfway in a hug, laughing and spinning them.

“We did it, Go!” He cheers, “The Baratie is a real restaurant! I’m a cook for a real restaurant!”

Go smiles, easy and right, ruffling his hair.

“Maybe one day you’ll even make a decent soup,” Zeff adds, not looking up from the book.

“Oi! Two people sent compliments on my soup, you sh*tty geezer! Unlike some people’s!”

“Measuring success compared to Patty’s soup is the lowest bar you could clear,” Zeff replies, but he doesn’t refute it.

‘I’m so damn tired,’ Go signs at their brother, because this argument could go all night. ‘Bed?’

Sanji nods, but then glances self-consciously back at Zeff.

“Just go, aubergines,” Zeff waves dismissively, “Can’t think with your chatter.”

They roll their eyes and grab Sanji’s hand, pulling him to the door.

“Did good today, you sh*tty brats,” Zeff mumbles under his breath as they leave.

Chapter 11: Puberty

Chapter Text

Time passes. Days, weeks, months, finally a full year. The Baratie stays afloat - literally and financially - and it even gains a reputation. Go’s flock of morons somehow gains a reputation, as the most hard-boiled waitstaff in the Four Blues. It’s kind of awesome how far they’ve come in just a year. Roth Randy can do proper one-handed pushups with 60-pound weights on his serving tray. Diswan punched a marine Commander unconscious in a single blow the other day.

Sanji gets closer and closer to sous-chef material. Go falls into a routine, though it’s not a boring one. For the first time since they developed true access to their emotions, life is good.

When the two of them turn thirteen, Go accepts that their voice is probably never coming back.

They’ve read as much as they can find on selective mutism. All of them describe the freeze response that Go experiences. But they also insist that selectively mute children can speak with trusted people like close friends or family members, which isn’t the case here.

That means it’s progressive mutism. Which is when selective mutism gets worse, and blows up into full-time muteness. Go apparently skipped the “selective” step and dove right into the deep end. Truly a prodigy.

They have a theory. That the sheer stress and trauma from the rock was the final push for their brain’s neuroplasticity to fully reconnect their emotion centers. And that after years of nothing or only a very small trickle, the sheer force of the emotions was just too much to handle.

Basically, now that they can feel anxiety full-time, it bowled them over and shut down their voice box. Not the most scientific explanation, but it’s the best they can do. Psychology is weird and everyone is different.

It sucks, though. One more thing that rock took from them all. Sanji’s innocence, Zeff’s leg, Go’s voice.

But they adjust. It helps that the waitstaff learns sign language, as do some of the less-thuggish chefs. Talking to people outside of Sanji and the sh*tty geezer is much less lonely.

Sometimes they get deaf customers, and it’s like meeting an old friend, despite being strangers. They chat with a level of understanding that speaking people just can’t achieve - not even Sanji, who knows their soul better than anyone else. This one thing is just not something he’ll ever feel, no matter how much he loves them. But the deaf customers who stay late to talk are a balm to the lingering aches of grief over their voice. They get it.

Plus, a few of them teach Go regional cussing signs. They love collecting new ways to tell Wasp that he can go f*ck himself.

Sanji takes up smoking. He thinks it makes him look older, or more manly or something. And since he’s been recently (finally) promoted to sous-chef, he’s doing everything he can to dissuade complaints about his age from the older cooks.

Go tries a few times for the hell of it, but it doesn’t really do much for them. Part of their genetic bullsh*t is immunity to most toxins, apparently including nicotine. So it’s just holding burning paper between their lips. The habit doesn’t stick.

Doing smoke tricks with their superhuman lungs is kinda fun, though. Diswan goes through two packs a day and falls slowly into insanity trying and failing to replicate them. They eventually have to institute a “no smoking on the floor” rule for the sake of his health and the customers’.

One morning, Go wakes up for their shift, throws off the covers, and Sanji starts screaming like he’s being murdered.

They’re on their feet and grabbing his shoulders in an instant, only barely releasing him to ask ‘What’s wrong?’

Sanji, still screaming, points at Go’s bed, before cutting himself off with a strangled choke.

Go’s bed is absolutely soaked with blood. Like, tore-an-artery soaked.

They quickly scan themselves for injuries, and realize that their grey boxers are a shade darker, and there’s streaks of blood leaking down their thighs. Sheer terror grips them. They can’t even think enough to breathe. Something inside them is damaged, horribly, and they can’t even feel it. They’re going to have to go to a hospital, and they’re going to be put under the knife. There’s no telling what the doctors will do while they’re unconscious on that table.

The door to their room slams open, with Zeff ready to kick the sh*t out of whatever made Sanji scream.

Go meets his eyes, body paralyzed, streaked with gore like a crime scene.

“Oh, sh*t,” Zeff breathes, looking caught off guard for probably the first time since they met him.

They can’t move, but they can feel the tears stabbing at the back of their eyes, threatening to form. They blink - they can at least blink - but all it does is seal their fate, sending wet drops rolling down their face.

“Oh, sh*t,” Zeff says again, with feeling.

Zeff manages to calm them both down enough to ask if they need to change course to a hospital. When this sends Go spiraling into another panic attack, Sanji frantically explains no, Go can’t go to a hospital for a few reasons he can’t explain. Absolutely no hospitals.

“Okay, no hospitals,” Zeff rumbles, clearly trying to cover his concern with gruffness. “You need to breathe, kid.”

Calling them “kid” instead of an insult means that he definitely thinks they’re dying.

‘Tell him,’ Go manages to sign at Sanji, ‘if I need a hospital he has to know.’

“Are- are you sure?” He asks.

‘Not our history,’ they amend quickly, ‘just what I am.”

Sanji nods hesitantly.

“Go isn’t actually a boy. Or a girl. They’re intersex.”

Zeff is so clearly lost.

“Okay... What’s this got to do with the hospital?”

“Um. They don’t… their parts are different. It’s a mix of both. And if they go to a hospital, a doctor might mutilate them in their sleep.”

Zeff’s mustache twitches downward.

“Also, we can’t let anyone study their blood,” Sanji adds. “Ever. That’s a separate thing.”

Go’s hands are white-knuckle gripping their knees. They stare intently down at their knuckles, and don’t dare breathe.

“Okay…” Zeff absorbs that. “As your caretaker, probably should’ve known that earlier, aubergines.”

He runs a hand over his face and down his beard.

“Good news, though. You don’t need a hospital. I think you’re just menstruating.”

They release the breath they were holding. Air rushes into their lungs, and they realize it’s been almost a full minute since they did that.

Sanji rubs their back as they get a hold of themselves.

Right. Menstruating. They’ve read about it, vaguely. It’s mentioned as a common symptom of puberty for intersex people with a uterus.

Go never even knew what kind of reproductive organs they had - Judge didn’t let them see their medical file, he only told them what they needed to fix about themselves visually. They can’t imagine he removed anything, since he likely would have just mutilated their genitals while they were on the table anyway. It makes sense that they’d have a uterus, if he wanted them to be female.

They don’t know much about menstruating beyond that. It’s something that can happen to people with a uterus. There’s a menstrual cycle. They never read into it.

‘What’s that mean?’ They sign feebly.

Zeff looks every minute his old age as he closes his eyes, turns his head up, and takes a deep breath.

“I’ll explain it. First, I need to make sure this place won’t go to sh*t if we take the mornin’ off.” He slides to his feet with a sigh. “Gimme twenty minutes. Sanji, clean up the sheets while h- they shower. And grab ‘em a spare rag for underwear. Bleedin’ won’t stop.”

Pale as a ghost, Sanji nods, and Zeff slips out.

Go has never been more vindicated in their life than at this moment, when they thank their past self for adding a private bathroom to the Baratie’s blueprints. If they also had to worry about one of the waitstaff walking in on their shower right now, they would just kill themselves.

When they exit the shower, their mattress is bare, but the blood has soaked all the way through to it. Sanji is in the midst of dabbing it with a wet cloth. Same way he gets sauce stains out of his suits. They sit on the floor and watch dully.

Zeff returns exactly 20 minutes later on the dot, with a ton of clean spare rags, a bottle of pills, and a bar of baking chocolate.

“Been told these’ll help,” He mutters, putting the pills on their bedside table. “I can’t remember if it’s just for the cramps or other stuff too…”

He hums in displeasure and walks to the bathroom, dropping the rags, and then sits down on the floor next to them with the chocolate.

“Didn’t have time to make it into candies,” Zeff says, like that makes any sense. “But every woman I ever had wanted chocolate when they were goin’ through the worst of it.” He pauses for a moment. “Or pickles, sometimes. If you want pickles let me know.”

Go has no f*cking clue what he’s talking about. It must show on their face.

“Right. Menstruation… Hm.” He looks so uncharacteristically lost that it would be funny if he wasn’t their only source of information right now.

“Once a month, for about a week, you’re gonna bleed like that.”

Alright. sh*tty, but do-able.

‘For how long?’ They ask.

“About a week,” Zeff repeats.

‘But how many months. A year? Two?’

“Oh. No, it’s forever.”

They blink.

‘You’re f*cking with me.’

“Might stop sometime in your sixties?”

Go stares at him. Searches for tells. Nothing. He’s dead serious.

‘There’s no way women just bleed all the time and no one talks about it,’ they sign. ‘That’s f*cking insane.’

Sanji, who has been pretty quiet for the whole conversation, nods fervently in agreement.

“Don’t know what to tell ya, brats. Guess they like to keep it private. That’s their business.”

Go kinda gets that. It’s not like they’re going to be advertising this to the world themselves. Still, men on the seas have a certain image of women as sexy-but-tameable beauties or naive-and-dainty flowers. It’s bizarre to realize any one of them could be leaking blood at any time.

Oh, sh*t, Go could also be leaking blood at any time. This is their life now. Forever.

‘Well this sucks,’ they sign with a huff. ‘Anything else I need to know about?’

“Yeah,” Zeff grunts, “You’ll get cramps too. Inside of your gut is peelin’ like wallpaper, so it seizes up to shake the bloody clumps off the walls.”

“Gah! That’s f*cking disgusting! What the hell?” Sanji cries.

‘That’s f*cking vile!’ Go concurs.

“It’s not my damn fault!”

“Describe it less graphically, jackass!” Sanji snaps.

Go makes a noise in agreement, lip curled back in distaste.

“Just sayin’ as is, you whiny brats,” Zeff growls. “But those pills’re supposed to help when it gets painful.”

It gets painful? f*cking hell.

‘Great. That sucks too. Anything else?’

Zeff strokes his beard, pondering. “Don’t think so? Might get mood swings. Can’t remember if that was a myth or not.”

Just what Go needs, even less control over their emotions.

‘You’re getting me a book on all this, you sh*tty geezer,’ Go signs, ‘your explanation is useless.’

“Shut up, damn brat!” Zeff’s peg leg comes up for a kick but it’s slow enough that they easily block.

The violence works to put them at ease, though. Zeff is returning to his usual surly crustiness, which is comfortingly familiar. Normal.

And he didn’t say no to the book, so they’re at least getting a real explanation on this sh*t eventually.

The room starts to smell, so Zeff sends Sanji to wash the bloody sheets.

As soon as he’s gone, Zeff turns to them, suddenly serious.

“Do you want anythin’ to change?” He asks.

Involuntarily, Go’s heart rate ticks up at the gravity in his voice.

‘What do you mean?’ They sign cautiously.

“Sanji says you’re not really a boy. You wanna keep bein’ one? Or do you wanna be somethin’ different.”

There’s something in their throat. For maybe the first time, they’re grateful they don’t have to use their voice.

‘I am something different.’ Their chest is weirdly hollow.

Zeff grunts, displeased.

“Ain’t about that. I’m askin’ what you want. Sanji called you ‘they.’ You want that from me? From the restaurant?”

Go… Go doesn’t know.

They’ve always used “they” in their mind. Even after years of masculine pronouns, it’s only ever been skin-deep. A degree of separation between what they are and how the world sees them. A protective layer of untruth.

To start going by “they.” For people other than Sanji to know their true self… It’s a terrifying prospect. They’d no longer have a place to retreat. If someone had a problem with Go, they’d have a problem with the real Go, not the masculine cardboard cutout they hide behind.

They’re mulling it over quietly for a minute when Zeff speaks up again.

“You’ll always be my f*ckin’ kid, aubergine,” he says, catching their eyes and holding the gaze. “You don’t gotta be my son to be my kid.”

Go’s breath hitches.

They want this. To their core, that strange part of them that irrationally wants things now, it wants people to know them. Truly know them. In the same way that there’s a profound difference between miming to someone and speaking in sign language, there’s a profound difference between being loved as a boy and being loved as themselves.

Zeff is already doing it, they realize. He used “they” earlier when giving Sanji instructions. And now he’s offering to love them, whoever they are, however they choose to let him.

‘I’m your kid,’ They sign. ‘Not son, but your kid.’

The old man sniffs. “Damn right.”

Go’s lips pull into a shaky, watery smile. They feel different. More raw. But not necessarily in a bad way. It’s like they’re airing out a smothered wound. Letting it breathe.

‘I don’t think I can tell the restaurant, yet,’ they confess. This is already a lot, and it’s just the sh*tty geezer.

“Those bastards don’t need to know unless you tell ‘em,” he says. “We’ll keep it in the family.”

Go takes the rest of the day off. Rizuki is on call today and he can handle it.

Zeff goes back to the kitchen not long after Sanji returns, because he’s a work-a-holic who breathes stove fumes instead of oxygen.

Sanji already had today off, so they hang out in their room together, reading and gossiping. If their flock of morons is dysfunctional, the kitchen staff is the cast of an over-dramatic pulp novel. Everyone has beef (no pun intended) with someone else, or there's a manhunt for whoever stole a guy’s skin mags, or they were boning and caught feelings then broke up but still have to work the same stove. It’s great.

The sh*tty old man himself brings up their lunch; the usual customer leftovers, plus a plate of freshly-tempered milk chocolate bonbons and a jar of spicy pickles.

Go still doesn’t understand the chocolate and pickles thing, but they’re not about to waste food. Zeff’s bonbons are f*cking amazing.

Ultimately, it’s all pretty good for a day that started in a pool of their own blood.

They’re back to work the next day. They experience some cramps while walking around, but their pain tolerance is so high that their steps don’t even falter. Small mercies.

The bleeding slows and stops over the course of a week. And then dealing with it monthly becomes normal.

Sanji’s voice starts cracking more and more, and he can barely get through a sentence. It’s hilarious.

Less hilariously, he gets horny now. Too f*cking often, actually.

Twice now, Go has walked in on him jacking it. Apparently this is as traumatic for him as it is for them, because he starts locking the door. Except that means Go is just locked out of their goddamn room at random intervals every day, and they refuse to use the staff washroom or Zeff’s private bathroom, which means they have to piss in the customer restroom.

They stage an intervention and establish a half-hour locked door maximum per day, or they’ll snitch to the chefs that he was the one who stole their missing skin mags.

Sanji, predictably, complies.

It’s not that Go isn’t sympathetic. They also get horny sometimes, but not at all to the extent that Sanji does. Maybe once a week, at most. And it usually has a cause. When a sultry female customer strokes their chin playfully, or pays them a compliment with a pretty voice and particularly dark lipstick.

Sanji is just a loaded gun all the time. He’s started taking wait shifts on his days off for a chance to actually interact with women. He sucks at it, by the way, but it doesn’t stop Wasp from selling him shifts in exchange for the tips.

Go still can’t believe he’s paying to do Wasp’s job for him. Even thinking with your dick, that’s stupid. Sanji is so f*cking stupid. Did they mention he sucks at waiting tables? He sucks so bad at waiting tables. All he does is flirt and pick fights with men on dates. And he refuses to follow the “no smoking on the floor” rule. Go is going to murder him. They take their rage out on Wasp until he shows up for work.

Revenge comes in the form of facial hair.

Sanji and Go start getting it around the same time, but Go gets significantly more of it. Sanji gets a pathetic little soul-patch thing and a mustache so patchy that even he realizes it’s better shaved.

Go grows a full chin-strap, absurdly thick, and a stache to match. (Black, thankfully, not purple.) Even some of the fully grown crew members are jealous. Imakura definitely is. He’s already twenty and still can’t grow anything.

It’s definitely thanks to the extra chromosome causing a hormonal imbalance, because it’s really not in the Vinsmoke genetics to have facial hair this thick. But if Go has to bleed every month for the rest of their life, it’s only fair that they can grow a sick beard, too.

It’s all fun and games until Go starts to form breasts. They don’t notice at first, until their shirt buttons begin to pull at the top. And their posture gets bad. And then their chest starts to bounce uncomfortably when they walk.

It’s still subtle enough to write off, but Rizuki and Diswan have been giving them weird looks lately, like they can tell something is different but they’re still trying to puzzle together what’s changed. It’s only a matter of time.

They corner Zeff in the empty kitchen one night.

‘I need bras,’ they tell him bluntly.

His eyes go wide.

“I’ll change course for land,” he says immediately.

‘The f*ck? Just order me some,’ they sign.

“Those things got sizes, brat. Unless you know how to take measurements?”

‘No, but you do,’ they snap. The old man’s gotten them enough custom-tailored suits. He can take measurements.

“Not for that!” Zeff argues. “I don’t even know if my suppliers would know where to get the right ones,” he mutters.

‘The hell does that mean?’ They sign, ‘What could they possibly-’

Their hands freeze as they remember every piece of literature in the bunk room is decorated with a woman in some sort of frilly, impractical lingerie.

‘Nevermind. Change the course, you sh*tty geezer.’

Chapter 12: Lingerie

Chapter Text

When Sanji finds out why they’re suddenly going to shore for the first time in two years, he demands to come along.

‘I’m buying underwear, you perverted f*ck,’ they sign. ‘I don’t want my goddamn brother there. That’s weird.’

Sanji wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, gross. I’m not going to be looking at you, asshole. I’m going to flirt with the women buying cute lingerie.”

‘No. I am not subjecting an entire store of women to you. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.’

“What if you need to ask a question?” Sanji asks, smug. “You gonna bring Rizuki to translate? Or the sh*tty geezer?”

f*ck. He’s right.

‘Fine,’ they accept, steaming, ‘but if you make a single person uncomfortable, I’m going to rip your dick off and feed it to you.’

The moment they enter the shop, Sanji is weirdly subdued and silent. Go doesn’t know what it’s about, but it’ll make this whole thing easier and they have too much on their mind to question it. So they ditch him at the front with the frilly stuff and beeline for the ones that look practical. Bras they can fight in.

They wear a cloth mask over their mouth and neck to hide their beard and look more aloof, plus their body language absolutely radiates “don’t talk to me” energy, so of course an employee ignores that and comes up to them anyway.

“Hi!” She says sunnily, “Anything I can help you with today?”

They shake their head and ignore her.

“Do you know your size? The ones here might be too tight for your build.”

Go sighs and shakes their head, trying to get her to leave.

“Would you like me to measure you, then?”

They huff and sign sharply at her to get the intent across. ‘Can’t speak. Leave.’

‘I’m sorry!’ She signs back, to Go’s utter shock, ‘I didn’t realize you were deaf.’

‘Holy sh*t,’ They sign, too bewildered to be polite. They’ve never encountered another signing person in the wild, considering how little they leave Baratie.

‘My mother is deaf, so I can usually recognize the mannerisms. But you mask so thoroughly I thought you were just a rude hearing person,’ she smiles bemusedly.

Their hands flounder for a moment, totally embarrassed, before cobbling together a response.

‘...I am hearing,’ they confess. ‘Just mute. And rude.’

She giggles. Go properly looks at her, and their heart skips a beat. She’s a tiny, waifish girl, barely over five feet, which means Go, at 5’8” and 200 pounds, is practically looming over her. She looks around their age, 15, give-or-take a year, with wiry ginger hair barely contained in a half-ponytail, heavy dark freckles, and huge circular glasses half the size of her head.

‘Well, if you at least recognize it, you can’t be that bad,” she replies.

Go blushes.

‘I’m in food service, I should know not to be a jackass to workers,’ They smile, letting it reach their eyes so she can tell despite the mask. ‘My name is G-O, Go.’ They finger-spell it, then show her their name sign, which honestly isn’t that different.

“Belladonna Kennedy,” She says aloud, while signing her own. Her family name is just the literal sign for the flower, but her given name is a play on the signs for “freckle” and “cute.”

‘A pleasure to meet you, Kennedy. Your name suits you.’

Now she blushes. Go’s smile grows. They want to make her do it again.

‘So, now that you’re not being rude,’ she says cheekily, ‘do you know your size or do you want a measurement?’

Oh, sh*t. They forgot what they were doing. They’re f*cking bra shopping. Combined with the long purple hair flowing all the way down their back and the mask over their beard, Kennedy thinks they’re a girl.

‘I… don’t know my size,’ they admit, then hastily add, ‘but you don’t have to measure me, I can guess.’

She frowns.

‘This is literally my job, silly, let me measure you. I can pick out some bras that will actually fit properly.’

‘Okay,’ Go agrees, before it hits them how f*cking stupid - even dangerous - this is. They’ve officially lost all rights to dunk on Sanji for thinking with his dick.

Kennedy leads them to some changing rooms in the back, their heart pounding the whole way in a combination of anticipation and fear.

“Alright, shirt off,” She says aloud, turned around and digging through a box near the curtain.

Go’s fingers shake as they turn away too, and slowly unbutton their shirt. Then slowly peel off their tank top. No one has seen them shirtless since their breasts developed. Not even Sanji, since they’ve taken to changing with their back turned, out of embarrassment.

But this is Kennedy’s job. She sees a dozen pairs of boobs a day. Even if they’re ugly or abnormal or something, she’s probably seen worse before. Probably. Hopefully.

With a deep breath, they steel themselves, and turn around.

Kennedy’s face is a bright red, holding a slack tape measure and blatantly staring. Their stomach drops. Self-conscious, they wrap their arms around their chest, trying to cover themselves. Their body tenses, instinctively bracing for an attack.

Kennedy blinks and looks up at their face, and somehow goes even brighter red.

“Sorry!” Kennedy squeaks. “That was so rude, I just- your back muscles, and then your abs, and- ohmygod-” She looks horrified. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to measure you now. Oh my god. Please forget that happened.” She bows low. “I apologize.”

Go studies her face, her body language. She doesn’t look disgusted, just genuinely flustered. And quite regretful. It takes a lot of effort, but they let their defenses lower, and, trembling, lower their arms, too.

Kennedy immediately takes on a professional demeanor. Swift and clinical, she measures their chest, scribbling some numbers down as she works. Go is relieved at the detached efficiency, feeling a little too exposed to deal with anything else.

“Alright, done,” she says, writing down the last number. “You can put your shirt back on.”

It’s back on before she finishes speaking.

“Would you still want me to get you a few to try on?” She asks, fiddling with the paper. “I understand if you’re uncomfortable. I- I can just give you the size and leave if you want.”

Go pauses. She sounds as nervous as they feel. But she’s not afraid of their body, she’s afraid of their potential rejection. And there’s a particular weight to the nervousness - one wary of retaliation - that they know very well. Though they can’t imagine why she would…

Oh. Of course. She still thinks they’re a woman. The attitudes toward hom*osexuality on land are a lot different than they are at sea.

At sea, a lot of societal rules go ignored because there’s no society aside from your crew. Usually all men. If you want long-term company - sexual or romantic - you have to find it amongst them. hom*osexuality is more-or-less accepted among pirates, save the occasional asshole with hangups.

But on land, there are taboos. If Kennedy openly admires a woman’s body and they take offense, they could ruin her life in more ways than one. She works in a lingerie shop, after all. And Go is clearly much bigger and stronger than her. From her perspective, if Go is offended, they could hurt her, get her fired, and ruin her family name. That’s terrifying.

That’s how Go feels quite often.

‘It’s okay.’ They catch her eye, trying to impart that they mean it beyond her recommendations. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

Kennedy’s eyes go wide. Fearful and hopeful.

‘Are you like me?’ She asks cautiously.

Their heart aches. It reminds them of how they felt during their conversation with Zeff, after he found out the truth. A deep yearning for someone to see their full self; to understand, and accept them anyway. They’ve barely known Kennedy for five minutes, but the need is so strong, so bone-deep, that it feels like it’s strangling them.

‘I’m different too,’ They admit. ‘Please don’t…’ scream, run away in disgust, try to kill me, ‘...be afraid.’

Slowly, telegraphing their movements, they reach up and pull down their face mask, revealing their facial hair.

‘I am not a boy or girl,’ They sign with shaking hands, ‘I was born different. I-n-t-e-r-s-e-x.’

Kennedy’s eyebrows shoot up. But she’s surprised, not frightened. Not even disgusted.

Go lets that fearful hope enter their expression too.

‘You are very beautiful, Go,’ She signs, a shy grin on her lips, eyes glistening with held-back tears, ‘Would you allow me to clothe you?’

Joy rushes into their heart, overwhelming and grateful. They can feel the gravity of her offer. This isn’t about doing her job, like it was before. This is something personal. It’s going to be different.

They nod, smiling. Kennedy smiles too, nodding back. They’re both grinning like idiots and nodding, and she starts giggling and they giggle too. It’s silly, it’s childish, and it’s maybe the most beautiful sound in the world.

Everything Kennedy selects is perfect. In fit, and in style. She brings plenty of the athletic models they were interested in, but also a few more… decorative ones too. Tasteful and practical, but aesthetically pleasing.

There’s this one lacy black push-up bra with plenty of support, but a frankly sexy cut that rests perfectly over their abs. Go’s never considered dressing femininely before, but they can imagine themselves in nothing but this bra and a button-up over slacks, shirt open to show off their muscles and thick happy trail. Mostly masculine, but with a dash of undeniable femininity.

They ask Kennedy to talk about herself on the other side of the curtain as they try everything on. She’s bashful at first, tentatively describing home life with her deaf single mother, but gets more passionate as she talks about her love for tailoring.

“It’s such a nice feeling, to fix the clothes that people love,” she says wistfully, “My mom got to keep her favorite dress, after I helped her patch it in a few spots. She wears it all the time, and loves to dance in it because of how it fans out just so when she spins. Every time I catch her humming and dancing in the kitchen, I feel so happy to know it’s because of me.”

She does mending and adjustments for free in her neighborhood whenever she can, but her dream is to open her own tailor’s shop.

“I’d only charge as much as I need to keep the lights on,” She says, “Since the people who need a good mend the most, it’s because they don’t have enough for new clothes. And I’d take on fittings for rich people too, to make a ton of money off them, so I can afford to do a bunch of the poorer folks for free.”

Go loves that her dream specifically includes upcharging rich people. They do that on the Baratie sometimes just for the hell of it.

Once they’re finished, they step out of the room with a huge grin under their mask, bag full of nearly everything Kennedy picked out for them.

‘I’ll be honest, I thought today was going to be sh*tty as hell,’ they tell her, ‘But this is the best day I’ve had in a long f*cking time. And now I’ll have bras that aren’t just sh*t I need to get by, but clothes I actually like.’

Kennedy beams with pride.

‘You are quite vulgar!’ She signs cheerily. ‘I’m so happy you like what I chose. It means a lot.’

‘I don’t give empty compliments. You’re good at it.’

She blushes, and that’s what Go was hoping for.

“I’ll put back whatever you’re not getting,” Kennedy says, gathering the items in her arms, “Wait for me up front?”

On their way to the register, they notice Sanji. They stop in their tracks.

He’s not trailing like a lovesick puppy after the handful of women in the store, as they expected. Instead, he’s inspecting a shelf of soft pink lingerie, decorated with tulle and bows. And he doesn’t look pervy or creepy, just… longing. He picks a pair of panties up gingerly, running his fingers delicately over the fabric. Holds it against his skin, like he’s testing how the color looks.

Then he scowls and drops it like it’s burned him, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets and storming off.

Go knows that look in him. It rears its ugly head sometimes, when one of the Baratie crew’s many casual insults accidentally echoes a little too much of their brothers’ or Judge’s words. It’s his self-loathing face.

The dots connect, suddenly: Sanji pressing so hard to come, his weirdly sober mood when they entered, the lack of shameless flirting. He’s interested in lingerie - not in a sexual way, but for himself. He probably thinks it’s beautiful, and artful. Sanji’s a romantic in every way, a sucker for pretty things.

It makes sense that lingerie would spark his sensibilities, and it makes just as much sense that he would convince himself he can’t indulge it. Sanji doesn’t think he’s deserving of much - especially not of something so sacredly feminine. Between Sora’s kindness and Zeff’s chivalry, their brother has come to idolize women. And if femininity is this bastion of everything good, there is no way he can be allowed to touch it.

Years of studying both psychology and their brother converge to pay off at this very moment. Go knows what they need to do.

They turn heel and beeline to the back where Kennedy is returning stock.

‘Change of plans,’ they sign, after getting her attention. ‘I need your skills again. My brother likes lingerie. I know wearing it will make him happy. But that dumbass would rather f*cking die than even consider putting it on of his own accord. He’s got issues. So I need your help as a stylist and a pretty girl to make him try it.”

Kennedy blushes.

‘You think I’m pretty?’

“Yes, very,’ they sign bluntly, ‘and he’s a teenage boy so that’s going to be super valuable.’

They pause for a moment.

‘Also, I’m sorry, he’s going to flirt with you. Really badly. Please just string his ass along until he tries on the clothes. I will make it up to you with the best f*cking dinner you’ve ever had in your life.’

Kennedy blinks, processing.

‘Did you just ask me on a date?’

Go nearly chokes, but catches themselves at the last second.

‘Yes,’ they lie. They only meant they could get her a table at Baratie and cover her tab; there’s no f*cking way they could be that smooth if they tried. But a date sounds lovely.

“Um. Okay, sure,” she says aloud, clearly stunned. “To both. I’m in.”

The plan is simple.

‘Come translate for me, asshole.’ They order Sanji, and lead him to the changing rooms.

They will deposit Sanji into the skillful hands of one Belladonna Kennedy, then slip out to guard the changing room entrance while he swoons.

“Oh, you gorgeous creature! Your visage is stunning, my darling. Please, call me Sanji. And often.”

Next, Kennedy will blink her adorable eyelashes and kindly ask him to try on a piece of lingerie that she picked to be purposefully different than, but similar in style to, the one Go caught him with.

“Oh… my. Thank you. Sanji-kun. Um. Do you think you could do me a favor, actually?”

Go winces. Her acting is subpar. But thankfully, Sanji is a lovesick moron.

“Of course, my beautiful angel! Anything!”

“Would you please try this set on for me? I need to see it on someone. For, uh… reasons?”

There’s a long pause. Go grows worried they overestimated their brother’s blind chivalry, or underestimated the self-loathing.

“Me?” He says finally, quietly. “I could go find someone else-”

“No,” Kennedy says quickly. “I need to see it on you. Please.”

Silence. Go could hear a pin drop across the store. They hold their breath.

“If- if that’s what you want,” he sounds strangled. “I can... Of course, my dear.”

Go exhales. She did it. They’ll have to ask Kennedy her favorite food and bully Zeff into putting it on the menu when she comes.

Time for the final step of the plan: convince Sanji he’s allowed to like it.

They do one more quick scan around the store, confirming that no one is going to be coming by the changing rooms any time soon. And then they sneak back inside.

Kennedy is nervously fidgeting with the hem of her long skirt, glancing at a closed curtain where Sanji is getting dressed.

‘You did great,’ Go tells her, ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘I really hope he likes it,’ She says, eyes still on the curtain. ‘I think it suits him. And people should wear things that make them happy.’

“I… think I have it on correctly,” Sanji says from inside. “But you-”

He cuts off as he opens the curtain and sees Go, freezing like a cornered prey animal.

“Oh, it looks lovely,” Kennedy breathes.

‘You look good, Sanji,’ They sign, trying to express as much sincerity as they can in their expression. ‘Really good.’

The set is a powder blue, lacy and sheer with a tiny bow in the center of both pieces, more pretty than sexy. Not at all something Go would ever consider themselves. But Kennedy was right; it suits Sanji.

They can see it in his face, that he likes it. Because it holds a genuine fear that can only be born out of something you care about.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” he says, desperate.

‘Sanji,’ they sign with gravity, ‘It’s okay.’

“I think it looks beautiful,” Kennedy says, voice small. “Do you like it?”

Sanji swallows thickly. His adam’s apple bobs.

“I…” He trails off. “It doesn’t matter if I like it.”

“It does to me,” Kennedy says sharply, “I’m clothing you. If you don’t like it, I will find you something better.”

He blinks at her, dazed. Slowly, he turns towards a full-body mirror, and stares at himself. Go can see his eyes glisten, holding back tears.

“...I like it,” he admits quietly. “It’s pretty.”

Kennedy breaks into a massive smile.

“Good,” she says decisively. “Can I bring you more to try?”

Sanji is still for several seconds, looking into the mirror, like the sight will vanish if he looks away for even a moment.

Jerkily, he nods.

“Thank you,” Kennedy says, “I will be right back.”

She leaves them both. Sanji’s still staring at himself.

“I can’t have this,” He says suddenly, prying his eyes away from the mirror like it’s painful, and facing Go. “What the f*ck am I doing?”

‘You’re buying underwear,’ Go signs calmly. ‘Because you like it.’

“No. No, this is lingerie. I can’t.”

‘Shut up,’ they sign sternly. ‘You can.’

“I’m a man,” he says desperately, “I can’t wear this.”

‘Because it’s for women?’

“Yes!” He cries, like he’s relieved Go said it.

‘I’m getting some,’ they rebut, ‘I’m not a woman.’

“But- that’s different,” he stammers.

They pull the black lacy bra out of their bag, showing him, before putting it back to sign.

‘It’s not. It’s just clothes. If you like it, wear it. Period.’

He’s floundering, searching for any excuse he can muster to deny himself. To prove he isn’t worthy of just being f*cking happy in his own skin. Go hates Judge with every fiber of their being, for ruining their brother like this. For denying him happiness still, even years and miles away.

‘Mom said you aren’t flawed,’ they remind him. ‘Believe her.’

Sanji flinches.

Just then, Kennedy returns to the room, arms full of merchandise that looks right up his alley.

“I have some more for you,” she says, “if you’re ready.”

Sanji is still looking at Go, haunted.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “I’m ready.”

The two of them return to the Baratie visibly changed. Like they’ve been through hell, reached nirvana, and got punted back to earth. Years of self-discovery and growth in the span of an afternoon. The sh*tty geezer takes one look at them disembarking from the dinghy and does a double-take.

“What the f*ck happened to you two?” He asks, bewildered.

“Don’t ask,” Sanji says tiredly.

‘I got a date!’ Go signs.

Chapter 13: Dating: Start!

Chapter Text

Kennedy is coming to the Baratie in a week. Because Go respects the hell out of her dream, they want to wear that lacy black bra outfit they haven’t stopped thinking about, just for her. But showing off their boobs - and by extension, themselves - to the restaurant for the first time while they’re trying to have a date sounds like a nightmare. So they’re going to have to come out with the truth before then.

Ever practical, they decide to rip the f*cking band-aid off immediately. The morning after the shop visit, they strap on one of the plainer push-up bras, forgo their usual waistcoat and bolo-tie, instead unbuttoning the top two notches on their shirt to show off their cleavage. They pull their hair into a french braid, and groom their beard.

They stare at themselves in the mirror. They look good, but different than usual. No longer letting people assume. This is all of them, visible. Not a boy, not a girl. Undeniably Go.

Sanji slipped away from kitchen prep for a “smoke break” to come up and help them. Mostly to kick some sense into them if they try to chicken out.

Under his usual suit, he’s wearing that lingerie he was admiring on the shelf. There is nothing about him visibly different, but they know it’s there, and that he chose to wear it today, in quiet solidarity. There’s an unspoken sentiment that if he can do this, so can they.

They’re nervous. There’s a knot in their throat beyond the usual one blocking their words. It’s taking so much willpower not to start shaking.

If anyone gives them sh*t, they can kick their ass, easily. The only one in the restaurant that can take them at this point is Zeff, after all. But they don’t know if they’d ever recover, if it came to that.

Sanji puts a hand on their shoulder, grounding.

“Let’s go. You’ll be late.”

Go nods. Together, they walk downstairs.

Today, they’re working with Diswan, Imakura, and Roth Randy. They’re all there when Go reaches the dining room, pre-folding a tub of napkins and shooting the sh*t.

Imakura notices first, his hands freezing mid-fold. Diswan and Roth Randy follow his gaze and similarly pause.

Go can’t move. Can’t breathe. They can barely sense anything beyond Sanji’s hand on their shoulder. Steady and real. Giving them a grounding squeeze, like Sora did once.

Imakura’s jaw falls open. “Are you f*cking sexy now?” He asks, dumbfounded.

Of all the sh*t he could have said, Go is probably least prepared for that.

‘What the f*ck does that mean?’ They ask, equally stunned stupid.

“Y’ave tit*!” Roth Randy says. “An’ey look gud!”

Imakura and Diswan nod dumbly in agreement.

Go stares at them. Sanji gives them another particularly strong squeeze, and they realize they haven’t said anything in way too long.

‘Thanks.’ Their motions are toneless. And then they pull themselves together. ‘Hold on, did you call me sexy?’ They round on Imakura.

“Yeah! You have boobs! Boobs are hot!”

“Oi, watch it!” Sanji snaps, “That’s my f*cking sibling, you perv!”

“Oh you are not allowed to call me a perv, you horny bastard.”

“You wanna f*cking go, you two-bit waiter?”

“Anytime, toddler chef!”

Sanji and Imakura launch into an all-out brawl over their egos, or maybe Imakura’s right to ogle their tatas. It’s unclear. But legs and hyper-long arms are already clashing. Go doesn’t have much to add, so they just wander absently over to the table and start folding napkins.

Roth Randy has already returned to folding, humming a chipper and off-key tune. Diswan is looking at them curiously. They have no idea what to say, so they just ignore him.

He coughs, awkwardly.

“Uh, question,” he says in his deep baritone.

Go inclines their head.

“Kick my ass if you must. But how do you have boobs? Are they fake?”

He’s genuinely curious, and not judgemental. Same way he asks about fighting techniques when they train.

‘They’re real,’ they tell him. ‘I’m not actually a man. Or a woman. In between. They instead of he.’

Diswan hums and nods in gratitude. Like they corrected his punch and not recontextualized their 5-year relationship.

“Ah sh*t! Y’shuda tol’ us!” Roth Randy says. “Aye’s bin callin’ y’ a boy ‘is ‘ole time lika idjit!”

Go blinks.

‘Well. Only Sanji knew the whole time,’ they say, because poor Roth Randy looks guilty for assuming what they let everyone believe.

“Still. Ain’ proper a’ me.” He punctuates with his napkin. “If aye git it wron’ ag’in, y’gotta slap sum sens’ inta me. Don’ like bein’ rude.”

Diswan makes a noise of agreement.

“We’ll let the rest of the guys know,” he tells Go, voice deep and warm. “They’ll be good. Even Wasp. …Especially Wasp,” he growls.

Goddamn it, Go will not cry. They are not full of goddamn love for their flock of idiots. They’re not.

“OI! AUBERGINE!” The sh*tty geezer hollers from the galley doors.

Behind them, Sanji is pressing Imakura’s face into the deck with his oxfords.

“f*ckIN’ WHAT?” He shouts back, casually leaning to avoid Imakura’s long-armed jab at his face.

“You’ve been on a goddamn smoke break for twenty minutes! Get your lazy ass back here!”

“sh*tty f*cking geezer,” Sanji mutters, stepping off their waiter. “Make a pass at them again and I’ll break your damn face next time,” he threatens.

“As if you could!” Imakura spits blood at his retreating heels.

Go is on him instantly with a punch to the back of his head.

‘Mop that sh*t off my floor, dumbass!’

“…sorry, boss.”

On the day Kennedy is coming, the entire ship gives them sh*t.

Everyone found out because Go asked Rizuki to swap shifts with them and tweak the schedule to make sure Diswan was working instead of Wasp. This prompted Wasp to ask Rizuki why the hell he was missing a shift, and Rizuki didn’t realize that the reason Go asked him to do the tweaking is because they didn’t want it to be traced back to them. So he f*cking told Wasp that Go has a date, which caused Wasp to experience cloud nine and then tell Every. Single. Person. on the f*cking Baratie.

They can’t leave their room without wolf whistles, kissy noises, or really bad advice directed at them. Roth Randy, at least, only tells them good luck, which is why he’s still their favorite after half a decade with the flock.

Imakura tries to tease them by giving them a condom, because he’s an idiot who forgot what being intersex means. Go calmly takes it, crushes it under their shoe, and signs ‘What do you think my dick looks like?’

That shuts him up real quick.

Go stops by the kitchen to let Sanji know to bake Kennedy’s favorite food for dessert (oatmeal cookies made with maple syrup instead of sugar, because that’s how her nan did them). But before they can open their mouth, the entire kitchen staff descends upon them like locusts, asking a million and one questions about who is their date, how did they meet, what does she look like?

They close their eyes and tune it out by vividly imagining themselves ripping Wasp’s stupid yellow highlights from his head one by one, until Zeff hollers at everyone to get back to work.

On their way back upstairs, a random f*cking customer asks “are you the kid with the date tonight?” and exactly one minute later, two grown men have to bodily drag Go off of Wasp before they permanently rearrange his face.

The rainbow of bruises painting Wasp’s broken nose serve as a convenient deterrent to anyone else who wants to tease them about their date.

Kennedy’s passenger ship is due to arrive at 5 PM, so they’re dressed and ready by 4, out on the docking deck, pacing. Go’s wearing the black bra, as they promised themselves, though they decided against leaving their shirt fully open on the first date. Instead, they’ve buttoned it up about halfway, with their favorite blazer over it - black with the beetle-green fabric lining the inside.

Around 4:30 PM, the sh*tty geezer comes out and just stands nearby, watching the ocean.

‘Why the hell are you out of the kitchen?’ They ask, because the dinner rush with a literal boatload of customers is due in half an hour, and this would normally be the time where Zeff’s barking orders become so furious that they’re audible in the dining room.

“You nervous?” He asks.

‘That doesn’t answer my question, you sh*tty geezer!’

“And that doesn’t answer mine, brat.”

Go scowls, staring him down. When the old man doesn’t budge, they cave.

‘Yes, I’m f*cking nervous, okay? She’s kind and sweet, and I accidentally invited her to meet my f*cking pirate family and thirty insufferable coworkers on the first date.’

Zeff huffs a laugh.

“You’ll be alright, aubergine,” he says. “You’re likable, sometimes. And you put what’s-his-face on bedrest, so we’re puttin’ our best foot forward.”

Go snorts. They look out onto the water. On the horizon, a tiny dot slowly grows. A ship.

Zeff, who apparently can’t end a conversation like a normal person, grunts and heads back inside without another word.

Kennedy steps cautiously off the passenger ship in a soft-looking lavender dress that falls just above her knees, and a white sun hat with a matching ribbon. She looks stunning.

When she spots Go, she grins and heads towards them. But she takes two steps then immediately falls flat on her face.

No sea legs yet, apparently.

Go rushes forward to help her up, taking her hand. She’s blushing furiously.

“Thank you,” she says, pulling herself up. “The ground keeps lurching! I had to sit down the whole way. You just live with this?”

Go snickers. Their date is a landlubber. It’s adorable.

It feels rude to just drop her, so they shift, holding her hand across their body and a steadying arm around her waist.

They tap her hand with their thumb, questioning.

“Oh, yes this is- this is good, thank you.” Her flush crawls down her neck. Go relishes how easy she is to fluster and guides her to the entrance.

“This place is beautiful!” Kennedy gushes, “And huge! Granted, I’ve never even been on a boat before, but they always seemed so small to me. This is bigger than most land restaurants!”

Go can’t help the surge of pride at her compliment. They helped build this place, after all.

Rizuki, at the host’s stand, nods professionally, though they can see he’s smothering a smile. Go gives him a stern look, but they know he’s smart enough not to bother them.

Go already picked out the table days ago, one on the (much quieter) second floor with a gorgeous view of the sunset. They told Rizuki specifically to set it, because he’s meticulous, and they’re embarrassed to discover he’s also added a single red rose in a vase at the center of the table. How the hell did he manage to get a fresh flower in the middle of the ocean? What the f*ck?

“Oh, Go, this is lovely!” Kennedy marvels. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been to a place with real silverware, let alone this much of it on every table.”

They pull out her chair and push it in for her, before taking their own seat across.

‘Don’t worry, it’s definitely not real silver. Most of our customer base is pirates, and they pocket anything that’s not bolted down.’

She laughs, and it’s melodious.

Dinner goes… well, dinner isn’t a total disaster.

There are a few heart attack moments. At one point, after Diswan delivers the main course, they watch him leave, only to notice Imakura and Sanji seated a few tables down, hiding behind newspapers and wearing the worst fake beards Go has ever seen. Diswan slips Imakura a few belli as he passes, and Go has no f*cking clue what they possibly could have bet on that was apparently confirmed before they’ve even eaten.

Go sends the table an absolutely murderous look. Imakura pretends to be really absorbed in his upside-down paper. Sanji meets their eyes with a smirk and signs ‘smoke break.’

“Everything okay?” Kennedy asks, apparently noticing the vein bulging in their forehead.

Before they can reassure her, she follows their gaze, and Go has never wanted anything more than they want to vanish off the face of the planet at this very moment.

“Oh, hi, Sanji!” She says cheerily, waving. “Nice beard!”

“Kennedy-chan likes my beard!” Sanji swoons. He falls out of the chair, and Imakura has to slap him back to consciousness.

She turns back to the table and signs conspiratorially at Go.

‘It’s cute that he’s trying to copy yours.’

Go chokes so hard they have a coughing fit, and it lasts at least half a minute.

If Kennedy loved the dinner, she’s absolutely undone by the dessert.

Sanji can’t resist watching people’s reaction to food he specifically made for them. Especially pretty girls. (At least, Go assumes. Kennedy is the only girl who has ever voluntarily spoken to Sanji.) So of course he delivers the cookies himself.

Having their brother crash their date twice is kind of annoying, but he gets a pass for the look on Kennedy’s face when she realizes what he’s holding.

“You- I-” her mouth opens and closes a few times. “Are those…?”

“Made with maple syrup, not sugar.” Sanji has that self-satisfied chef smirk. “Deceptively tricky to get the consistency right. But the flavor is definitely worth it, particularly for one as fair as you.”

‘No flirting with my date,’ Go reminds him.

“I am so sorry, Kennedy-chan, I am forbidden from lavishing you with my lo-”

Go smacks him upside the head.

Sanji places down the cookies.

“Please, enjoy. And if you would like a date with someone who treats you properly, I’ll be-”

Go throws a fork at him. He flips them off but leaves.

Kennedy watches him go. “Your brother is… really like that all the time, huh?”

‘I would say he means well, but I’m not feeling charitable. He’s a dumbass.’

She laughs. Then, tentatively, takes a cookie and nibbles it.

Instantly her eyes light up.

“Oh!” She takes a bigger bite. “I haven’t had these in years, this is just how I remember.”

She practically shoves the rest of it in her mouth and grabs another. Go tries one for themselves and has to admit they’re delectable.

“It’s like I’ve been transported back in time,” Kennedy says around a chew, “How on earth did he do this?”

‘Sanji is a dick-brained simp, but he’s really good at cooking.’

Her eyes crinkle as she laughs, and she puts down a cookie to sign.

‘Sometimes you use signs I don’t know, but I can just tell they’re vulgar. What’s ‘dick-brained simp?’’

Go delightedly teaches her their favorite cuss words as they empty the plate together. They can tell she’s sad to see them go, but knowing Sanji, he made a double batch and packed a to-go box for her, decorated with pink ribbons or something.

The sun dips below the horizon, and Kennedy’s passenger ship departs soon. So, reluctantly, they lead her back outside, onto the deck. Sanji, that smooth criminal, has already left a heart-shaped tin on the host’s station, which Go snags as they pass by. They do subtly pop it open and ditch the love note he slipped inside before gifting it to her.

“I had a wonderful time, Go,” Kennedy sighs, staring out at the ocean with them. “I would love to come back, if you’d have me. You are… I really want to see you again.”

Go’s smile is so wide it’s starting to hurt their face.

‘Any time. You’re always welcome. And your food will always be free.’ They wink.

Blushing, Kennedy brings her hand up to rest gently on Go’s chest, trailing over their abs. Another hand ghosting their waist. And then she cranes her head up all the way and kisses them.

Go kisses back. It’s a little awkward at first, because they’ve never kissed anyone before, and Kennedy probably hasn’t either. Plus the height difference. But they bend more to meet her halfway, figure out how to use less teeth, and it turns into something very nice.

From the restaurant behind them there’s a wolf whistle, and Go startles, breaking the kiss. Kennedy’s flush has spread so much that it’s probably her entire body.

‘Next time, we’re going straight to my room, and I’m locking the door,’ they sign.

Kennedy squeaks, but doesn’t say no.

Chapter 14: Sanji's Dream

Chapter Text

The Baratie continues along its regular course, but every two months it cycles back close enough for Kennedy to visit and vice versa.

Go buys a snail phone and calls her every week, to hear her voice. They can’t talk back with it, but it picks up their facial expressions so she knows they’re listening. And if they have something to tell her that can’t be communicated through hums and exaggerated faces, they can pester Sanji to translate.

(It’s probably not pestering if he’s begging to get on the line. But making him say their words and not just flirt is an ordeal.)

It’s nice. Go is eighteen years old and they feel like a normal person - a normal teenager, even. Like the ones they read about in psychology books. It’s a bit comical, considering what they were genetically engineered to be.

Go is happy, and their life is good.

They catch Sanji reading about the All Blue again.

He immediately tries to hide the book of fairytales and laugh it off as nostalgia, but Go is long past the days when they doubted his conviction. The All Blue is his dream, and he’s thinking about it again.

Sanji has been a sous-chef for years now. Go, despite living in a restaurant, isn’t actually that knowledgeable about the inner workings of a kitchen, but based on the sh*t he’s cooking these days, they doubt Zeff has anything left to teach him. He’s officially a great chef. Part one of the dream, complete.

There’s a restlessness in him. Once they catch him with the fairytales, the signs are so obvious. Go can’t believe they missed it before. He spends more and more time smoking out on the dock, watching the ships and the ocean. He occasionally asks customers to tell him about their travels on his breaks. He stays up late to experiment with unusual recipes, far outside the restaurant’s fare, stretching the limitations of his cooking skills beyond what the sh*tty geezer can teach.

Sanji craves more. Where Go has always been content with safety, Sanji has always yearned for something greater, for freedom. And while he’s not locked up by any means, he’s still restrained by routine. It’s weighing on him like shackles.

There’s an ugly, selfish little voice in Go’s heart that wants to grab those shackles and pull them taut. Because they don’t really have a dream of their own, and for a long time Sanji was their entire world. Their whole reason to live. Hell, they’ve never even been apart from him for more than a few hours since they were locked in that cell together. It’s hard not to grab him tight and smother him like a child hugging a teddy bear for comfort.

But Sanji comes first. Always. Even if Go is well past the point of emotionless, single-minded devotion, their brother is still the most important person in their life. And they will do anything for him. Including… letting him go.

They can tell it’s going to be the lingerie situation all over again. Sanji is going to dig his heels in and insist that he doesn’t deserve to be happy with any number of excuses; the kitchen needs him, Zeff needs him, Go needs him. Even if that last one is painfully true, Go will let their corpse sink to the sea floor before they let Sanji’s stupid inferiority complex keep him here. Judge’s bullsh*t will not take their brother’s dream from him.

Go will find a way to send him out to sea.

Their opportunity crashes through the goddamn ceiling.

There’s some bullsh*t happening outside, as usual. Pirates, marines - just about anyone ballsy enough to make the trip to the Baratie, honestly - love picking fights on the docks. As long as it’s not in their dining room, Go doesn’t give a f*ck what they do. When they hear cannons firing outside, that’s just Tuesday.

Until a cannonball f*cking obliterates table seven.

Thankfully, the table was unassigned, so there isn’t blood to mop up, but it was set, so there’s broken glass twinkling around the giant ass crater in their floor.

Go practically teleports outside, their aura radiating murderous intent. There’s a bunch of marines and sh*thead kids arguing, and Go’s hands are flying to sign a string of curses so inventive that Dr. Vegapunk himself would be impressed by their ingenuity. But no one understands them, or even really acknowledges them, so they’re about to start throwing punches when the sh*tty geezer shows up too.

“Who’s the bastard who broke my f*ckin’ restaurant?” He shouts.

“That was me! Sorry!” Says one of the sh*thead kids. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Go imagines strangling him.

“Sorry ain’t gonna cut it, you sh*tty brat! You’re payin’ damages.”

“Okay! But I don’t have money.”

Go’s teeth grind so hard it’s probably audible.

“Then you’ll have to work it off.”

Go freezes. They turn slowly to Zeff and shake their head. And then when he continues to stoically ignore them, they shake it even more vehemently.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ they sign, ‘I’ll kill you in your sleep.’

“Sure!” Says the little punk, oblivious. “Sounds fair to me.”

‘No. No no no, he can just pay with his life instead,’ they insist.

“Startin’ today, you’ll work, unpaid, as a waiter for the Baratie. This is Go, they’ll be your boss.”

‘Am I f*cking invisible?’ They ask. ‘I said no!’

“Oh, shut up,” Zeff actually addresses them, finally. “If you could train your morons, you can train him.”

‘Yeah, but I don’t f*cking want to!’

“What are you doing with your hands?” The kid asks, walking way too close and tilting his head to watch them curiously.

They round on him, seething.

“Ohhh! You wanna fight.” He says it like a realization, not a taunt, but Go feels like a bull seeing red. “Sounds fun. Let’s fight!”

Go doesn’t even wait for him to finish the word, they swing their fist.

All of his friends are shouting in panic. But the kid steps deftly backwards, dodging it by half an inch.

“Shishishi, you’re really fast!” He says, ignoring Go’s shocked face and his friends’ hysterical scolding.

No one, save Zeff, has been able to dodge a genuine punch from them since Germa. It has to be a fluke.

They swing again. Harder. Faster.

The kid ducks, hand on his straw hat to keep it from flying off. Go whiffs.

“My turn!” He says, throwing his own haymaker.

Holy hell, he’s fast, too. Go can’t even imagine trying to catch it, they just dodge. With effort. The displaced air from the punch flutters a flyaway strand of their hair.

Their instincts trigger. It awakens that purpose woven into their DNA, to fight with brutal efficiency. The adrenaline of real win-or-lose combat surges, and all restraint vanishes. Their mind blanks.

Go knocks the hand aside and closes in for a jab. The enemy spins out of the way, into a roundhouse kick to the head, but they duck beneath it and slide behind the target, aiming for a right hook to its spine. The enemy dances in turn, bending its torso to the side with surprising flexibility. The lack of connection throws them off balance, which allows the enemy to wrap both arms around their torso and flip them over its head for a front suplex. Go’s back slams into the deck hard, but they don’t let it stun them. They grab under the enemy’s arms and use their full superhuman strength to sit up and hurl it over their head, sending the enemy crashing into the restaurant’s wall.

Go stands and advances as the enemy lays dazed in a crater. They raise their leg and aim to crush its throat, an efficient kil-

A force slams into their stomach like a freight train. Go flies through the air and plunges into the ocean.

The sudden cold and lack of enemy shocks them. Their mind clears like a lifting fog, self-awareness creeps in, and Go is mortified. They- they were going to kill that boy. Zeff - that kick had to be Zeff, to send them flying like that - was the only thing that stopped them from senseless, cold-blooded murder. Right there on the deck of their home, without hesitation, in front of the kid’s friends.

Ashamed and more than a little afraid, they swim to the surface, gasping for air.

Zeff, the boy, and his friends are all staring down at them over the edge of the ship.

“You done bein’ a jackass?” Zeff asks, mustache twitching downward.

Shivering, Go nods, head bowed. They can’t bring themselves to look at the boy.

“Good. Get the f*ck up here and train the new waiter.”

The boy’s name is-

“Monkey D. Luffy, and I’m going to be King of the Pirates!”

Go would assume he’s naive as hell if he wasn’t so casually good at fighting that he turned them into a mindless attack dog. If anyone in the East Blue had the potential, it’s this kid.

They’re in Go’s room, the boy sitting cross-legged on Sanji’s bed as they dig under their own, looking for that damn chalkboard they haven’t needed in years. Making one of the waitstaff translate would spread them even more thin than they already are, with Go occupied training Mr. Pirate King. And their options from the off-duty members are Wasp or Roth Randy, who would be equally unhelpful for two wildly different reasons.

Luffy doesn’t need combat training, he only needs etiquette and restaurant training. Halfway there already, right? Except he has the attention span of a goldfish. They’re having trouble getting him to just learn a few signs for basic communication; they can't even imagine explaining a proper table setting yet. And he strikes Go as the kind of guy who rarely uses a fork at all, let alone five of them in a meal.

‘Kitchen,’ they show him.

He squints.

“That one’s ‘table’?”

Go is literally propping up a chalkboard displaying the word “kitchen.”

f*ck it. If he’s joining their flock of morons, he’s getting trained like one. Time for the old “point and smack” method.

They grab him by the wrist and drag him down to the dining room. The upper floor is mostly empty, so they grab a tub of spare dishware and set the table in less than 10 seconds. And then they point at Luffy.

“Eh?” He co*cks his head to the side like a lost puppy.

Go gestures at the empty side of the table, irritated.

Luffy blinks twice. There is nothing happening behind those eyes.

For f*cks’ sake.

Hitting him won’t help, but Go does it anyway just to feel better. They ignore his questioning whine and storm downstairs. They don’t even have to go to the kitchen to find who they’re looking for. Sanji is out in the dining room, pouring wine for the random navy bastard who was part of the day’s disturbance.

For a moment, Go is wondering what the f*ck he’s doing out on the floor, and then they notice the absolute bombshell of a date the marine managed to pull. Sanji is flirting.

Whatever. There’s too much going on today for Go to get properly pissy over it. They need a translator-slash-babysitter.

They don’t get the chance to ask. The marine dumps an entire plate of Sanji’s soup - his new recipe that took three days to simmer and meticulously skim - right onto the floor.

Go has the man by the front of the shirt before the broken porcelain finishes clattering.

You’d better be willing to lap that sh*t off the floor, Go wishes they could say. They settle for an animalistic growl.

“And now I’m being man-handled by a He-She!” The marine cries. “I’m going to ruin this place’s reputation.”

It’s been a minute since they heard that particular slur, and they were so pissed on behalf of Sanji that they didn’t think to brace themselves. It stings, and Go is momentarily stunned.

Sanji, blessedly, cracks his neck behind them, distracting the marine.

“Sounds to me like you have a death wish,” he says lowly. The fury rolling off him is tangible in the air. “Because I don’t tolerate anyone wasting food, and I certainly don’t let anyone who insults my sibling walk away with the same number of teeth.”

The bastard’s eyes widen in fear, but before Sanji can make good on the threat, there’s a gunshot.

In the doorway, a young marine drops to his knees, then forward onto his face. Blood pours from a hole in his back, spreading rapidly across the white tile of the dining room, running along the grout like some kind of f*cked-up irrigation system.

The whole restaurant screams and scatters. Go drops their own marine in utter bewilderment. He scrambles away, but they don’t even care anymore. This day just keeps escalating.

A haggard-looking thug steps into view with a literal smoking gun. He steps casually over the body, walks over to the nearest empty table, and sets his feet up on the tablecloth. A spitting image of Wasp on the first day they met.

For the millionth time in the past hour, Go sees red. Fury, blood, you name it, is boiling over in their veins. People are still running and shouting. Rizuki is doing his best first-aid on the shot marine, but it’s likely a moot effort. Imakura is stalking the thug, trying to find an angle to tackle him without someone getting shot. Roth Randy is doing his best to herd customers out the back, but going largely ignored. And the man who started it all is staring directly at Go and Sanji, swinging the barrel of his gun lazily towards them.

“Bring me food. Anything will do,” he says, voice rough.

Go is plotting to tackle him themselves, when Sanji’s hand rests on their shoulder, squeezing. They pause and shoot him a look.

‘Something’s off,’ Sanji signs. ‘Look at him closely.’

So they do. And he’s right. The man’s clothes are much too baggy, the dark rings around his eyes are sunken beyond normal tiredness, his hands even shake minutely around the gun. He’s not a scrappy thug, he’s starving. Legitimately, verge-of-death starving. And the two of them won’t let that happen on this ship.

“No funny business,” the guy growls, pointing the gun at Sanji. “Food. Now.”

Starving or not, this guy’s not allowed to point that thing at their brother. They step between Sanji and the barrel, protectively.

Apparently this thug is too hungry to remember how hostage situations work. He shoots Go in the f*cking chest.

It takes a moment to register. They don’t know if that’s the shock, or the superhuman abilities, or even just their impressive pain tolerance. But they look down to confirm that yes, there is a fresh hole in their chest, right above their heart. It’s gushing blood like a fountain, and Go thinks about how much f*cking blood they’re going to have to mop off the floor between this and the dead guy.

It’s definitely shock, if that’s what’s on their mind.

“I said no funny business,” the man repeats. “I f*cking meant it.”

And then the pain starts to bleed in. No pun intended.

It’s excruciating. Their head spins with the sheer intensity of it, worse than their brothers’ beatings or dangling from the metal codpiece for hours or even their stomach dissolving after the rock. They have the endurance to handle a lot of pain over several hours, but a shot to the heart is much more concentrated - there’s nothing but burning in their chest and throat, burning so hot that they can’t even think over it.

They’re staring at the ceiling. They must have fallen over at some point. Sanji’s face appears, and his mouth is moving. They can’t hear him, but his expression is in conflict between agonized and enraged.

A few thoughts brute-force their way through the pain. Sanji is worried about them. And someone on their ship is starving.

With a little effort, they manage to sign. ‘Feed him first.’

Sanji looks grim, but he nods. He sets them down - ah, he was holding them - and leaves.

Awareness is touch-and-go, after that. They stare at the ceiling. They blink and they’re being carried in Imakura’s arms. They blink and they’re staring at a beautiful blue sky instead. They blink and the boy with the straw hat is staring down at them, asking a question they can’t parse.

Time isn’t syrupy and distant, like it is with dissociation; it’s more like a skipping record. The world is hard and fast then it’s suddenly totally different, just as hard and fast but in a new way.

They blink one more time and Zeff is there. And when their eyes droop again he slaps them.

“Ow! The f*ck?” They say. It comes out hoarse and bloody.

Zeff’s expression goes from grim to utterly shocked.

“Did you just speak?”

“Yeah? What-?” Their sore throat suddenly seizes as their brain catches up. They haven’t spoken in eight years.

I can speak, they try to say. But their lips and vocal chords are frozen again. Those few words were nothing but a fluke.

Also, they’re in f*cking agony.

‘What’s happening?’ They manage to sign, staunchly ignoring their disappointment and the flares of pain at the motions.

“Quite a bit, if I’m bein’ honest,” Zeff says. “You got shot, for one. Waitstaff brought the wrath of god down on the poor sap. Threw him out. But aubergine got him some food, in the end. Rest of his crew showed up starvin’. We got them fed, too, and now they’re attackin’.”

Wow. That is quite a bit. But it probably can’t be too bad if Zeff is here with them instead of out there fighting.

‘Hurts,’ they sign.

“Yeah. That’s bein’ shot for ya. I’ll be honest, kid, you should be dead. There’s shrapnel in your heart. I don’t think anyone else could live this long, let alone be conscious right now.”

Ah, their superhuman bullsh*t. Well, if they’re not dead yet, they’ll heal. That’s usually how it works. And even if that changes this time, there’s not much they can do about a perforated heart.

‘Sanji?’ They ask.

“Busy. Like I said, lot goin’ on. Had to kick his ass a little to get him back outside. Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Go realizes for the first time that they are no longer staring at a blue sky. They’re in their room, laid out on their mattress.

Suddenly the ship jolts, and then sways furiously. Zeff grunts and holds them flat until the worst of it passes.

They make a noise somewhere between pained and inquisitive.

“Wait here a second,” the sh*tty geezer says, slipping out the door. As if Go could f*cking move right now.

He’s back within a few seconds.

“A regular showed up. Destroyed a ship. Now he’s fightin’ the new kid’s swordsman.”

Go isn’t sure if they’re too out of it to parse that properly, or if it really made no f*cking sense.

That sentiment must be all over their face, because Zeff huffs.

“Don’t worry. Hawk Eyes knows not to touch my ship or my kids if he wants to eat here again. Pretty sure he was just cleanin’ up his mess.”

It’s like word salad. Go tries to pick out some sort of meaning. They get dizzy. Their eyes are heavy.

“Ah, sh*t, no sleepin’, aubergine,” Zeff says, lightly slapping their face. “Stay with me.”

They groan in protest.

“That straw hat boy is already gonna be takin’ Sanji. I can tell. I’m not lettin’ you leave this old man alone.”

Go lets out a high-pitched whine. Sanji is leaving? Being taken?

“Sanji,” they mumble. It f*cking hurts like they swallowed nails, and the burn in their chest flares unbearably.

“Oi, aubergine, don’t you da-”

When Go wakes up, Sanji and Luffy are in the room.

Sanji is hanging off their mattress, fully asleep and clutching their hand like a lifeline. Luffy is across the room, once again cross-legged on Sanji’s bed, staring at them with big round eyes.

Go is surprisingly lucid. Everything still hurts, but they can compartmentalize enough to think straight. Whatever sh*tshow was happening outside must have ended, for their brother to be here.

“Go is awake,” Luffy says. It’s not quiet, but Sanji doesn’t even stir.

They can’t sign without pulling their hand from Sanji’s grasp, and he wouldn’t understand anyway, so they just nod.

“Good. Sanji was worried about them.”

Go sighs. Of course he was. They reach over and pet his head fondly.

“I want Sanji to join my nakama,” Luffy says, watching them with a peculiar intensity, “and I know he wants to. But he won’t leave Go.”

Their heart clenches.

I don’t want him to leave me. They think, hand instinctively tightening in his.

Go was shot today. Yesterday? They’re not sure how long it’s been. They nearly died. And if they hadn’t stepped in front of Sanji, it could have been him. He wouldn’t have survived it like they did.

f*ck. All they want to do is curl protectively around their brother. Never let him leave their embrace. Safe and alive and here, no matter what.

Luffy’s stifling attention is on them. They can feel it, even if they’re avoiding his gaze. Guilt curdles in their gut.

Go, f*cked up and half-dead on this mattress, has so much power over Sanji’s happiness that it’s criminal. All they have to do is wake him up and tell him the truth. ‘I don’t want you to leave me,’ Go would say, and he’d clip his own f*cking wings without a second thought. He would live the rest of his life on this sh*tty restaurant boat. He would smile, and it would rot his soul.

With a few words, they could put another helmet on their brother. Keep him safe, but keep him captive.

Go forces themselves to meet Luffy’s eyes.

Can you keep him safe? They try to ask through the silence. Make sure he knows he’s loved? He hates himself, you know. You have to smack it out of him occasionally. He’ll rip his own heart out for just about anyone. Would you push it gently back into his chest? Remind him he deserves to keep it? Deserves the world, too? He’s happiest when he cooks, but only if someone else is going to enjoy it. Will you eat every bite? Even if it’s burnt? Especially if it’s burnt, so that he knows it’s not the food you appreciate, but the fact that he loves to make it. Would you notice when he clearly wants and wants something with all his heart, but adamantly refuses to take it? Could you help him grab it?

Tears sting. Their breath hitches.

Can you make him happy for me?

The gunshot wound is nothing compared to the ache in their soul. All the words they can’t tell this boy, but need him to know. Because it’s his job now, to protect their brother. And they have to know he’s up to the task. They have to. Go has grown and changed and become a real person in the past decade, but they wouldn’t be here without Sanji. The boy who was so adamantly kind, despite it all, that it taught them how to love.

Can you make him happy? Go begs their brother’s captain. I can’t do it alone, they confess, I need you to take him to the ends of the earth for me, and show him he deserves it.

No words come out. Their voice and hands are equally useless in the presence of the boy with the straw hat. But there’s a glint in his eyes, a worldliness that wasn’t there before, and the air between them changes. That oppressive weight in his gaze shifts from scrutinizing to understanding.

And Luffy nods.

Chapter 15: Goodbye

Chapter Text

They doze a few more times, but eventually feel truly awake again some hours later. The lights are off. Someone has moved Sanji to his own bed, where he’s curled up beside a splayed-out Luffy. The room is filled with soft snores.

Go shoves themselves to their feet, ignoring the gross, sticky pull of the blood-crusted bandages on their chest. They feel a bit light-headed, but they stumble to Sanji’s bed, give him a peck on the forehead because they’re sappy, and slip out into the hall.

Their descent down the stairs is about seventy percent falling, and causes a few black spots to blot across their vision, but they manage to drag themselves into the kitchen.

It’s not empty.

The sh*tty geezer is there, nodding off over a working stand mixer. He startles when he hears the door. And then he lets out a string of colorful swears, flicking the machine off.

“You got shot in the heart, brat! Why the hell are you up?”

‘I’m fine. Gimme juice,’ They order.

Zeff stares at them for a moment, positively dumbfounded, before hobbling over to the fridge, cussing the whole way. But he pulls out a carton of their favorite lum-berry juice because he’s secretly a huge f*cking softie.

‘How long since-‘ they pause, squinting as they recall some hazy details. ‘Did f*cking Hawk Eyes show up? Is that what you were saying?’

The old man grunts affirmatively and slides them a glass.

“Chased that crew off the Grand Line for fun, didn’t realize we were close by. Came to apologize and finish ‘em off.”

Go drains the cup and hands it back for more. Zeff looks irritated, but he knows their next move would be chugging directly from the carton, so he pours them another.

‘I’d argue he did the right thing in the first place. The guy sent us starving people. That’s our whole deal.’ Go smirks.

“Shut up, brat! You got SHOT!” Zeff slams the carton down on the table so hard that juice splashes out the top. “In the f*ckin’ HEART!”

The sudden volume makes Go flinch. They didn’t think… but upon closer inspection, Zeff looks more frayed than they’ve ever seen him, outside maybe the rock. Hunched shoulders, dark rings of exhaustion under his eyes, entire body so tense he’s a single strand away from totally snapping.

They recall that he was falling asleep standing up when they came down, mixing something. The sh*tty geezer doesn’t often bake. He finds it too stifling and boring when he can’t improvise. But the air smells like a simple chocolate chip cookie batter, and it clicks: he was worried sick. The only reason he’s still upright is because he’s too anxious to even pass out.

Zeff sighs, the rage fading as fast as it came.

“Been about twelve hours since then. Fifteen, since the shot.”

They swallow thickly. The aftertaste of the juice is suddenly far too sweet.

‘I’m sorry,’ they say eventually.

“I don’t think you are, aubergine.” Zeff sounds tired. “I think you feel rotten as hell about it, but I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”

Their stomach churns. They can’t correct him. Not in good conscience.

“Just don’t do it again?” Zeff begs. They’ve never heard him beg before. It scares them. “Sanji says you stepped in front of that gun. I don’t care if you got somethin’ special in you that makes you think you’ll be fine. You promise me you won’t ever do that sh*t again.” His voice breaks. “Don’t make your old man bury his kid.”

Their throat seizes. Tears stab dangerously at the back of their eyes.

‘Okay,’ they sign. ‘I promise.’

They’re interrupted by thudding, rapidly approaching footsteps, and the galley doors swinging open violently.

“Go is-!”

Sanji cuts himself off mid-shout.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” He scowls at them. “Get the f*ck back to bed!”

‘Hi Sanji,’ they sign, feeling bittersweet. A sad smile on their lips.

“You-!” He cuts off again, staring. “What’s that face? What the f*ck is going on?” He turns to Zeff, a hint of hysteria in his voice. “Are they f*cking dying?”

‘I’m not dying, dumbass!’ They sign a little too aggressively and wince at the pain.

“Then what the hell is going on!?” He cries.

‘You’re leaving.’

Sanji freezes. That cornered prey animal look, when he cares too much about something to even speak of it.

“No, I’m not! Did he shoot your brain, too? Why would… I…”

But the denial is just a moment too delayed. And at the look on their face and Zeff’s, he lets it pewter out, tense with wariness.

“Help me finish the cookies, aubergine,” Zeff rumbles. “Let’s talk about the All Blue.”

Sanji and Luffy sail away in the supply schooner at sunrise.

Go stays up with their brother all night. Says goodbye a million times, in a million ways, with a few dozen hugs, despite the pain to their heart - physical and otherwise. But the good thing about being mute is that they don’t have to make themselves say the actual word. Go doesn’t think they could handle that.

Sanji cries when he sets off, and when Sanji cries, Go does too. They’re a couple of ugly f*cking messes. The cooks and waitstaff aren’t much better. Zeff, at least, keeps it together. Go can see his mustache twitching and a few tear trails, but they don’t comment because they know he’s more precarious than a house of cards.

Once the schooner fades into the distance, when they can no longer see his waving hand, the weight of everything from the past twenty-four hours comes crashing down on their shoulders like the tsunami after an earthquake. They bury their face into the front of Zeff’s apron like they did when they were ten, and sob until they pass out from exhaustion.

The first week without him is rough.

His absence is a missing limb, a hole in reality, a bullet wound in their chest. Every few hours they think of “one last thing” they wish they’d told him. Or they start signing a question to the empty bed across the room. Or they can’t fall asleep without the sound of his snoring. Or they call Kennedy and have a breakdown when they realize he’s not there to be their voice.

More than once they break into Zeff’s room to sleep while he’s not there, because they’re not healed enough to be back at work yet, and spending hours staring at Sanji’s perfectly made bed and empty closet makes them feel ill. It’s so stupid. He’s out there living his dream, and Go is here mourning like he’s dead.

In the afternoon on day four, Imakura brings them dinner, and has to physically shake them for a response. They surface, and discover they’re missing the whole morning to dissociation. Random chunks of the past few days are holes, too, that they didn’t even notice until now. And the realization makes them so dizzy they throw up on his shoes.

So Go insists they’re ready to return to work on day five, even if they can only stand for a few hours at a time before getting light-headed. They need to do something, anything, to make sure they don’t go under again. If they go too deep, they’re not sure they’ll be able to surface without Sanji.

On day seven, their flock of morons stages an intervention. Go has fainted on the dining room floor two times in as many days. They’re hardly sleeping, and they refuse to take any more time off. So they have two options: either they start taking naps in Rizuki’s hammock during the day, or the flock will drag them into Zeff's room at night.

They take the naps, but not before leaving a few bruises. Those idiots are lucky Go still has internal bleeding, or they wouldn’t be able to walk.

The napping helps them physically, but by day ten they feel like a zombie bite victim - on the verge of catatonic, grasping desperately at whatever humanity they have left just to stave it off.

They don’t even realize that the Baratie has changed course until Kennedy walks into the dining room on day eleven, having stubbornly rowed out to meet the ship herself in a tiny boat. Go barely has a moment to register that the person approaching the host’s stand is familiar before she’s wrapped her arms around their waist, and they’re burying their face into her hair with a pained, keening noise.

Kennedy saves them.

Zeff understands their grief, but he’s hurting too, and his instincts are to harden, harden, harden his shell to stay strong for Go, for his crew. The flock are good friends who care for their well-being, but they don’t quite know the carvings of Go’s soul enough to comfort them emotionally.

Kennedy, though. Kennedy knows them, and she’s softness they sorely need.

In the silent, half-empty bedroom, she tells them to cry. That they’ll feel better when they do. And they realize that despite how much of a wreck they’ve been these past few days, they haven’t cried at all since that morning Sanji left. They’ve just buried and buried and buried it until they were numb.

They let it out. She cries with them, too. Sanji is her friend, after all, and she didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“It makes me sad. So I’m gonna cry over it,” she says, sniffling and petting their head. “I’m going to let it hurt for a bit. Because I think I need it too.”

They let it hurt together. They hug, and cry, and talk about how stupid he is, and laugh between hiccuping sobs.

Kennedy doesn’t cry as long or as hard as Go, but she comforts them the whole time regardless. And after a few hours of letting their ugly, pathetic pain explode all over the room, their reserves are empty. They feel lighter. Like they finally have enough room in them for some emotion other than grief.

“And you know,” Kennedy says, “we’re going to see him again, once he’s come around the world. Which means I get to slap him across the face for making my beau cry.”

‘Sanji will love that. It’s the only touch from a woman he’ll ever get.’

Go isn’t ready to be alone yet, so Kennedy takes two months off from the lingerie shop to work on the Baratie. The sh*tty geezer agrees to just send her wages straight to her mother via her family’s messenger bird. When her mother sends a confused note back, Go finds out that the lingerie shop pays Kennedy less than half of the flat wage every employee makes at Baratie.

Kennedy insists that Zeff pays unusually well, but Go knows for a fact that the payment is no more than the exact average industry wage for a line cook, because Zeff is pragmatic as hell. Which means that the shop is stiffing her, either because she’s a single woman, or because she’s sweet and soft-spoken. Maybe both. Though it really doesn’t matter why, because Go is none of those things, and they are going to have a very friendly chat with her boss in a few months when the ship swings back around.

Until then, they train their girlfriend to be a waiter, and she’s hands-down the best study they’ve ever had, save maybe Rizuki. She absorbs hospitality lessons like a sponge, and gets new skills down in about an hour every time.

She’s polite and polished, which none of their flock has ever been. Roth Randy is polite, but polished? Not really. And all that politeness and polish apparently makes her the customers’ new favorite waiter. Which is good, because Go hasn’t done any combat training with her, so they’d rather she not get in any sort of fight.

Kennedy is hesitantly open to the physical training aspect, but Go draws the line at hitting a woman, particularly one they’re dating. Even if they’re not as hopelessly devout as Sanji, Zeff still raised them with some chivalry.

They wake her up to do push-ups every morning and walk her through how to punch and kick properly, but they leave it at that. And she seems a bit relieved. The violent aspects of the Baratie have always made her a little nervous.

Sanji’s absence is still felt, a constant ache with the occasional flare of pain, but it no longer consumes them. They can laugh and occupy themselves with other things if they want. Or they can hide themselves away to cry if they need it, too. Either way, they begin to feel alive again.

Almost a month after Sanji leaves, the News Coo delivers the usual bounty posters.

Top of the stack is Monkey D. Luffy, Wanted Dead or Alive, for 30,000,000 belli.

“It’s Sanji's captain!” Kennedy yells, and the entire crew comes running to huddle around Go, hoping to get a glimpse of the poster.

“Thirty million, eh?” Zeff strokes his chin. “Not bad for a first bounty. That one’s a real firecracker.”

Go is awash with pride. Of course he is! That’s their brother’s Captain! He’s going to be King of the Pirates, and Sanji’s going to feed him all the way to the top!

There’s a newspaper article in the delivery as well, detailing the fall of the Arlong Pirates at the hands of the navy… after a battle with rookie upstart Strawhat Luffy. A lot of it is propaganda bullsh*t about how the fight weakened Arlong and finally gave nearby marines a chance to take him on and liberate the town. But Go can read the truth between the lines. Luffy kicked his ass into a pulp, and the marines scraped it off the pavement. In the images of citizens celebrating their freedom, the plates of food they hold are undeniably Sanji’s handiwork, from the grill-marks on the fish to the drizzled pattern of the glaze.

Barely a week later, there’s an article about a disturbance in Loguetown, in which a bunch of pirates tried to stage an execution on Roger’s platform, only to be interrupted mid-beheading by a bolt of f*cking lightning.

The accompanying image is Buggy the Star Clown swinging a goddamn executioner’s axe down on none other than Monkey D. Luffy, grinning like a maniac, totally unbothered.

Reading over their shoulder, Zeff grunts.

“This was a few days ago. He’s in Paradise, now.”

Kennedy gasps in horror. Go smacks the sh*tty geezer upside the head.

‘That makes it sound like he’s f*cking dead, asshole!’

Chapter 16: New Normal

Chapter Text

Two months pass, and Kennedy has to return home.

Go takes a few days of shore leave to accompany her, for a number of reasons. The first is that they are not about to make her row herself again when they have literal superstrength. The second is that they haven’t forgotten about her dogsh*t wage situation.

They ask Kennedy to go find them some food while they tie up the boat. Then they slip away. Go is dressed as masculine and refined as possible, they even bound their chest under the 3-piece suit. And they stalk right through the doors of the lingerie shop, all the way to the little office in the back.

With more force than necessary, they slam a letter down on the desk, and cross their arms, intentionally flexing their biceps through the suit.

Terrified, the pervy-looking mouth-breather that Kennedy has to call a boss takes the letter. He reads. And then he starts reading faster. Then he goes back to the top and reads it again. And finally, he glances up nervously at Go, who narrows their eyes.

“Um, please t-tell your employer that I will give her a huge raise immediately! There’s no need for him to visit! We are happy to serve!”

Satisfied, they bare their teeth at him in a threatening approximation of a smile, and take their leave.

Kennedy is furious when she finds them exiting the shop.

‘Red Leg Go, what the hell did you do in there?’

They grin cheekily. ‘I just handed him a note, saying you deserve a raise.’

Kennedy narrows her eyes.

It’s true. All it took was a note. Official repurposed stationary from the desk of Warlord Dracule Mihawk, explaining that his girlfriend (who definitely exists) found the perfect set of lingerie for their anniversary, thanks to the help of one Belladonna Kennedy. But she was appalled to find the girl’s family struggling financially. The warlord strongly encourages the shop’s owner to give Belladonna Kennedy a significant raise, or else he might see fit to pay his girlfriend’s favorite intimates shop a visit for himself.

Go is almost certain that Hawk Eyes is exclusively sexually attracted to sword-wielding men, if not swords themselves. But he also got them near-fatally shot, so Go is allowed to fabricate a girlfriend in his name this one time if he ever wants to eat good Veal Cacciatore again.

‘If I get fired, I’m breaking up with you.’

Go just grins back at her. They get the feeling her boss would close down the store itself before firing her now.

The other reason they took leave to accompany Kennedy, is that they have to meet her mom. They’ve been dating for nearly three years, but both of them have been putting this one off to maybe an unhealthy degree.

Kennedy loves her mom dearly. And she’s a very kind woman, as far as Go’s been told. But she doesn’t know that Kennedy has an eye for women and other folks, not men. As far as she knows, Go is her daughter’s boyfriend. Because Kennedy took a page from their book and let the assumptions ride from her use of the word “beau” and a description of Go’s beard.

Go is enough of a coward to let her mom keep misgendering them forever, but Kennedy would like to tell her the truth eventually, despite her fears. And Go honestly owes her this after stealing her away for two full months.

They’re outside Kennedy’s house now, holding her hand in a vice grip. She’s gripping back just as hard.

“Maybe we actually don’t have to do this,” Kennedy whispers. “You can sleep on the roof. I’ll leave your meals on the back stoop.”

Go gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“My mom is a good person. And kind. And she loves me,” she says shakily. But she’s still just staring at the door, unmoving.

“If…” Kennedy trails off. Bites her lip. “If she doesn’t understand… would you let me stay on the Baratie for a while?”

Go pulls her into a hug, cradling the back of her head and nodding.

Kennedy holds it for a minute, breathing deeply into the fabric of their suit, before eventually pushing away.

“Now.” She declares. “We have to do it now, or I’m going to run away.”

Go immediately grabs the handle and opens the door.

Belladonna Skye is a beautiful woman.

Her hair is a gorgeous shade of crimson red, much darker than Kennedy’s, but a lot more unwieldy, too. She’s also a tiny thing, wearing a well-loved sundress patterned with cherries and a few patches. Her back is to the door, and she’s humming something without a real tune as she flits about the kitchen, occasionally twirling and sending her dress flaring out.

Go instantly understands just about everything about why Kennedy is the way she is. This woman is cheerful and sweet in her movements alone.

Kennedy gives their hand one last nervous squeeze, then crosses the room, knocking gently on the counter.

Skye looks up from her cookbook and breaks into a massive, warm smile, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug.

‘You’re back!’ She signs once they pull apart. ‘Oh, Kennedy, I missed you so much! How are you? Where’s-‘

Skye pauses, catching Go out of the corner of her eye, where they were definitely not cowering in the doorway.

‘You must be the dashing pirate boy!’ Her motions are so chipper it’s adorable. ‘I’m so excited to meet you! My daughter said you cleaned up well, but she didn’t tell me you were so handsome! What a catch!’

Kennedy winces behind her.

Go, meanwhile, is absolutely eating up the praise.

‘It’s a joy to meet you, ma’am. Your home is lovely.’

‘It’s your home, now!’ She insists, waving them over. ‘Come, give me a hug. I’m your mother, too, you know.’

Kennedy squeaks. ‘Mama!’

‘What? A boyfriend of three years and I’m not allowed to call him my son? Unless you’re stringing his poor heart along!’

Kennedy looks more and more pale with every masculine term. But her hands are glued to her sides in terror. Go decides to help her out. They give Skye a hug, and after she pulls away, they take a deep breath to brace themselves, then sign:

‘Thank you. But it’d be more correct to call me your kid, rather than your son. I am not a man or a woman.’

Skye blinks, surprised. She darts a glance at Kennedy, who looks like she’s trying as hard as possible to become transparent. Their girlfriend nods affirmatively, and Go understands that this is probably as much as support she can manage in this particular circ*mstance.

‘You…’ Skye signs, cautiously, eyes now furrowed in concern at her ghostly pale daughter.

‘Kennedy, you’re scaring me. I need you to tell me what’s going on.’ She turns fully towards her. ‘I was prepared to hear any number of horrible things when you told me you were going to be on a pirate ship for two months. Are you ok? Did they hurt you?’

Kennedy shakes her head, still looking ill.

‘Please, tell me.’

Kennedy gives Go a pleading, anguished look. She’s frozen.

‘Did-’ Skye’s hands freeze, and her glance wanders for barely a millisecond to Kennedy’s stomach, and Go feels sick. ‘Did they do something to you?’

‘Kennedy, you need to breathe,’ Go signs. ‘It’s okay.’

Skye rounds on them, all jovial kindness gone.

‘Get out.’

Go takes a step back, surprised. A little scared. There’s hatred in her eyes. It reminds them of Judge, of the doctors that he commanded. She’s disgusted.

‘Get OUT! I don’t know what you did to my daughter, but if you don’t leave right now I’ll gut you.’

Go takes another step back, fearful. They know, logically, that she poses no physical threat to them. But emotionally, it feels like she’s already stomped them half to death and has her foot raised for more.

“No!” Kennedy yells, no longer frozen, lunging for her mom’s hands.

‘Go didn’t do anything, Mama, please. You’re scaring them.’

‘You’re scaring me! What’s going on?’

‘I’ve been lying to you!’ Kennedy signs, tears rolling down her face. ‘I haven’t been dating a boy, I don’t even like boys! I’ve been dating Go. I met them in my shop when they came in for a fitting. A bra fitting. Because they’re intersex.’

Skye looks confused by the word she doesn’t recognize, but doesn’t interrupt.

‘I don’t like boys. I’ve never had a crush on any, I just pretended I did to be normal. I think strong girls are hot! And I think Go is hotter than girls, even! Plus, I love them!’

Go blushes beneath their abject horror from earlier.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being different, and for lying to you about it. But I’m not sorry for being in love with Go. You can’t make me sorry for that.’

Tears well in Go’s eyes. They’re so f*cking proud of her, and so damn honored to earn her love. If they could, they would scoop her up in their arms right now and hold her tight.

Kennedy is shaking from the adrenaline, breathing ragged as she stares down her mom, clearly preparing for the worst possible things she could do.

‘Kennedy,’ Skye signs gently. ‘My baby, it’s okay. It’s alright.’ She strokes a hand down her daughter’s cheek. ‘I love you. Always. Always, okay? Show me back.’

‘A-always,’ Kennedy signs shakily. Go gets the sense that “show me back” is a sentimental exchange between them.

‘Always.’ Skye repeats firmly. ‘I don’t think it’s bad that you’re different. I’m different. Did you know, when my father realized I was deaf, he kicked out your nan and me. And when I realized I was going to have a baby myself, I swore I’d never do a thing like that. That I’d always love you. Always. And I’m not going to take it back just because some people don’t like your kind of different, Kennedy. You’re my baby girl. I would never do that.’

She pulls her daughter into a hug, and they hold it there, sobbing.

Go can’t help it. They screw their eyes shut, and the tears that formed during Kennedy’s confession roll down their face. Skye’s sentiments hit just a little too close to home, as someone born defective. They wish Sanji was here to witness the words, too. They would remind him of Sora.

When they open their eyes again, Skye is facing them, waiting patiently.

‘Sorry for shouting at you,’ she signs sheepishly, ‘I thought maybe you hurt Kennedy. Would you forgive me? Let me start over?’

Go lets out a breath of relief.

‘Yeah,’ they sign, ‘that would be nice.’

They spend three days with the Belladonna family. Go never had emotions while Sora was alive, but based on how loved they feel with Skye treating them as her own, they understand Sanji’s adoration for their mom. They can see, now, how a mother’s love could inspire Sanji to hold onto his kindness, even through a childhood of Germa’s torture.

When they return to the Baratie, things settle into a new normal. Business as usual, but with a few more card games after hours, a few more calls to Kennedy every week, to stave off the loneliness. They learn to live as their own person, and it’s not so bad once they get used to it.

Eventually, Luffy gets a new poster. A full hundred million belli, though there isn’t an article explaining it this time.

Zeff grunts. “Means that boy’s doin’ sh*t that messes with the government’s image. They love talkin’ up how dangerous pirates are, unless it makes ‘em look bad.”

There’s another familiar poster on the stack.

‘Hey, is this the kid who fought Hawk Eyes? He survived?’

Roronoa Zoro, Wanted Dead or Alive, for 60,000,000 belli.

“Guess so,” Zeff rumbles. “60 million for a first bounty. These kids are packin’.”

Bet Sanji’s first bounty will be bigger, they think, a little competitive.

They should’ve put money on it.

Sanji, Wanted Dead or Alive, for 77,000,000 belli.

The composite sketch on the poster is truly the ugliest thing they’ve ever seen. And they’ve seen Sanji’s actual face.

After spending two whole minutes rolling around on the ground in hysterical laughter with Imakura, and another five minutes of roasting Sanji in absentia, they take a proper look at the rest of the stack.

Luffy’s bounty jumped to a healthy 300 million. Zeff lets out a low whistle.

“That’ll be rookie of the year,” he rumbles. “The brat’s tearin’ through Paradise like an inferno.”

Roronoa Zoro’s doubled to 120 million. And the ginger who screamed at Luffy a lot - Nami - gets a starting 16 million, plus the hottest bounty photo Go has ever seen. But they have a girlfriend so they let Imakura keep it.

The accompanying front-page article… holy sh*t.

“Holy sh*t,” Zeff says aloud.

ENIES LOBBY ATTACKED, DESTROYED

DEVIL CHILD NICO ROBIN AND STRAW HAT LUFFY REDUCE NAVY STRONGHOLD TO RUBBLE.

No f*cking way.

“No f*cking way,” Imakura says aloud.

They read fervently. Apparently, the government was arresting this “Devil Child” for sinking a bunch of ships when she was eight. And then the pirate crew she was traveling with, the Straw Hats, invaded and demolished the island to free her. She… also helped them do it? It’s unclear. The article is trying so hard to make her and Luffy seem simultaneously like lucky weaklings and terrifying powerhouses, to the point where it contradicts itself. Did Luffy fail to kill a single ranked officer, or did he burn the island to the ground with everyone on it? Was the Devil Child dragged pathetically to the Gates of Justice, or was she slyly cooperating until the last minute? The journalist doesn’t seem to know their own angle.

Either way, they return to the bounty posters with newfound context, picking out Nico Robin (79 million), Sogeking (30 million), and Tony Tony Chopper (…only 50 belli total?) as fellow members of their brother’s crew, according to the article.

They’re so happy. Sanji may not have a photo, but the bounty is proof that he’s alive, well, and kicking ass. His crew is growing, and he even helped save a damsel in distress; that’s part of at least twelve of his sappy romantic fantasies.

The Baratie crew has a party to celebrate Sanji’s first bounty. They may be a restaurant, but they’re also pirates at heart - they know how to have a good time. Tons of food, games, and music. Plenty of alcohol, too. The sh*tty geezer brought out the good sh*t for everyone to get wasted in his son’s honor.

It gets crazy. At one point, Wasp is doing jello shots off Rizuki’s back, and then the two of them stumble upstairs while making out, which is a hookup that Go has never considered possible and wishes to never think about again. They only wish their stupid immunity to toxins didn’t apply to alcohol so they could drink to forget.

At around 4 AM, they hoist an unconscious Zeff over their shoulders and carry him upstairs, dumping him unceremoniously onto his bed.

It isn’t until they’ve crawled into their own sheets for the night that they think about the implications of that poster.

What if Judge sees it?

The blood in their veins turns to ice at the intrusive thought, and they can’t shake it.

Go is being paranoid. That asshole has better things to do than keep track of pirate bounties. And it’s not like there aren’t other people in the world named Sanji… though the sketch captures his most damning feature, the eyebrows.

But even if he does see it, what the hell would he care? Sanji isn’t using the Vinsmoke name, or claiming to be a prince, or doing anything that violates the terms of their freedom. He’s just existing. Even if Judge always considered that a crime, it’s not exactly offensive enough to warrant a manhunt in the Grand Line.

They’re just worrying too much. Sanji is alive and well, and there’s no use in trying to turn something as joyous as his first bounty into paranoia fuel.

…Right?

The next they hear, Sanji’s captain is crashing his brother’s execution. Alone. No mention of his crew.

It’s a massive world event, televised on all major islands. But Zeff can’t get his hands on any of the snail recordings afterwards - everyone he talks to says it was patchy as hell, anyway. Go doesn’t care about bad cinematography, they just want to see if they can spot their brother in the chaos.

In the coming days, the government settles on a narrative for what they’re calling “The Summit War.” Fire Fist Ace, secret progeny of Gol D. Roger, was successfully executed. His father captain, Emperor Whitebeard, was similarly killed in the resulting pirate backlash. The fighting was brutal and devastating, and Marineford was destroyed in the process, but it was a decisive victory for justice.

For those keeping score at home, that’s the second major navy stronghold that Monkey D. Luffy helped destroy in the past three months. Though, there’s no official word on whether he survived the conflict. He’s not counted among the dead, at least. But the only rumors on him in the following weeks are that he’s, allegedly, the son of Revolutionary Dragon. Which, even if that were somehow true, is not helpful to Go, who just wants to know if their brother is alive.

Eventually, Luffy makes the newspapers for doing a mourning procession through Marineford. Which means he’s alive. But he’s only accompanied by Silvers Rayleigh, not his crew. Not even his ship. And then he vanishes again, no word on him or his movements for several weeks.

A full month of nothing has the entire restaurant on edge, and Go in particular is a nervous wreck. Every day that passes with no news on the Straw Hats, the ball of dread in their gut grows and grows.

Chapter 17: Letters Home

Chapter Text

During week seven of worrying, Go’s eyes are more bloodshot than they are normal sclera. They’re distractedly pouring a customer wine and mentally entertaining Awful Scenario #426 (Sanji is being held captive in Impel Down as a hostage to make Luffy reveal Dragon’s location) when a beautifully-manicured hand snatches their wrist.

They blink, realizing they’ve overpoured.

“Something on your mind, baby?” Says a sultry voice attached to the hand.

The customer is a tall, goth woman, wearing what Go can only describe as dominatrix fetish gear. It’s all fishnets and leather harnesses with metal rings and studs. It leaves very little to the imagination. And Go was so absorbed in their worrying that they hadn’t even f*cking noticed.

Their mouth gapes like a fish.

“When Candy-boy said he had family, he didn’t say they were part of our family,” the woman purrs. “And that they were such a delectable ~treat.”

She punctuates the last word with a boop to their nose.

Go lets out a strangled noise. It feels like their brain is broken. The very hot dommy mommy is saying words. They should really listen.

“Focus up, baby,” she says. And wow, Go was just thinking the same thing. “Sanji is safe.”

The words are like a bucket of ice water.

Go is no longer distracted, or smitten, or stupid. Sanji. This woman knows Sanji.

…This woman knows Sanji?

Not the time. Focus.

‘Who are you? Where is he?’ They sign.

The woman frowns.

“Not familiar with that one,” she says. “You have somewhere we can talk? Privately?”

She places a hand on their arm. To anyone else, it might look like flirting, but Go is comically somber. They just nod, face set.

“Relax, baby,” the woman coos. “Put on those puppy dog eyes from earlier. Let the restaurant think we’re just going to fool around.”

Go has no way to tell her “actually I have a girlfriend so let’s maybe not sell that angle,” so they just lick their lips and jerk their head towards the stairs.

The woman trails behind them as they lead her to their room. They pass by Wasp pouring some people water and he does a double take, dropping the pitcher into the customer’s lap. The customer starts chewing him out, and he starts cussing back, and Go takes advantage of the distraction to slip upstairs.

In their room, they lock the door, and ask, ‘No signing?’

“Sorry, baby, don’t know that hand code.”

That’s a weird f*cking way to put it, but okay.

Sighing, they dig around under their bed for the damn chalkboard, and scribble down their questions from earlier:

Who are you? Where is he?

The woman blinks. And then she laughs, deep and rich, a hand over her face like she’s forgotten herself.

“Aren’t I thick? That’s not hand code, that’s sign language!” She laughs again. “My bad, baby, I can be a real dunce. Too long in the field, it fries your brain. You can hear me, right? I’m not projecting?”

Go stares at her. Their eye twitches. They circle the first question for emphasis.

Who are you?

“Right, sorry. My name’s Strap. At least for now. And I’m here to let you know that Sanji is safe, he’s just… laying low for a bit.” She pauses, bites her lip. “What’s your name, baby? My boss didn’t give me many details, beyond looking for a waiter with curly brows.”

Go erases the first question and writes over it, then circles the second one.

Go. Where is he?

Strap hums. “Normally, I’d say I couldn’t tell you, but considering the fact that you’re family… not okama, but family, am I right?”

Go stares at her, utterly confused and more than a little irritated that she keeps meandering around their questions.

Strap frowns at their expression.

“Queer, baby. Man, woman, it’s a pointless separation, right? You smudge the line. That makes you part of the family.”

Realization hits Go.

You’re like me, they write, echoing Kennedy’s words from the first time they met.

Strap laughs. “Oh honey, there isn’t a cis person alive who serves this kind of c*nt at on a Tuesday afternoon. Of course I’m family.”

In hindsight, Go feels really stupid for not noticing earlier. To their defense, they’ve had a lot on their mind recently.

Speaking of.

But where’s Sanji?

Strap sighs dramatically. “No appreciation for foreplay. That’s what I was getting at. Candy-boy is on our island. Our island, the family’s island. It’s a safe haven of sorts, and top secret. As far as I can parse, poor Candy crash-landed there with some help, because there’s no way he could have found it alone.”

Family’s island? They write.

Strap considers them, for a moment.

“No one else can know what I’m about to tell you,” She says, voice low. “Not even your pops in the kitchen. This secret, it’s bigger than Sanji’s safety. Bigger than just the trust broken between you and me. It’s about the safety of every okama - every queer - who’s ever needed somewhere to run for their life. If one set of lips is a little too loose, there’s a lot of people out there who won’t hesitate to burn our island to the ground. Do you understand?”

Go swallows thickly. Nods.

Strap reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a small pink paper. Gingerly, she tears it in half, and hands Go one of the pieces.

“Do you know what a vivre card is?”

They shake their head.

“It’s a common tool on the Grand Line. A piece of someone’s soul, stamped into paper, that always leads back to them. Watch.”

She holds her palm out flat and places the paper on it. Slowly, jerkily, it starts to move on its own, away from her.

“This one isn’t for a person, but for Momoiro Island, home of the Kamabakka Kingdom. Normally, it’s impossible to make a vivre card of a place. But Momoiro isn’t a normal place. It has a beating heart, in more ways than one.”

She tucks her own paper back into her cleavage.

“As long as there is a single okama still alive in this world, that card will point you to the island. Our family always has a way home, as long as we have each other.”

Go sucks in a breath and holds it, realizing the weight of the tiny paper in their hands. They haven’t met that many queer people before, aside from a handful of patrons who they couldn’t exactly communicate with easily. And hom*osexuality among the Baratie crew is still pretty saturated in machismo, not interested in messing with gender stuff.

But this… Go is suddenly responsible for the entirety of their brethren. Sistren? Their people. Anyone who’s “different,” as Kennedy would put it. They’re part of a community, now - a family - who has entrusted them to keep this secret. A home that they’ve never known, but can always return to.

It warms and aches their heart in equal measure.

I promise, they write for their sister.

Strap smiles.

“Welcome to the family, baby.” She grabs both sides of their head and pulls them in for a bruising kiss. It’s not really sensual - no tongue, or grinding, or anything - but it catches Go off guard. Their entire body goes rigid until she pulls away with a loud smacking mmmmMWAH!

Go’s mouth hangs open in shock.

“Now,” Strap says, all business, not even acknowledging that. “If you’d like, I can get a letter to Candy-boy for you. I won’t be going home myself, sadly, but I can pass it along.”

Go closes their mouth before they catch flies, nodding. A letter. Right! They can write Sanji a letter!

“Beautiful. I’ll go back down to my meal. Partially because I want to finish that divine risotto, and partially because there’s no way anyone buying our cover so far would believe you’ve lasted this long under my touch.” Strap winks. Go blushes.

‘I have a girlfriend!’ They sign angrily. Kennedy hasn’t complained about their endurance!

“I told you I don’t understand that, dear~” She sings, slipping out the door. Then, loud enough for the hallway to hear, “Take a minute to come back down, baby. You took it like a champ.”

Goddamn it. They don’t know how the hell they’re going to explain this one to the ship without sounding like a cheater.

They make sure not to let any tears get on the paper.

Sometimes, late at night, they pull the vivre card out of their own cleavage, and let it dance across their palm. They watch it slowly inch towards Sanji, towards a home that loves them, even if it doesn’t know them. And they let their heart yearn for just a few moments before tucking it away and falling into peaceful dreams.

Go doesn’t get to see Sanji’s new look in a bounty poster.

Chapter 18: Family Reunion

Chapter Text

Less than a week after Sanji’s final letter, Go is working, as usual.

They’re in a chipper mood, because hearing from their stupid brother does that to them, and because Kennedy is due to visit later today. So they wait tables with a bounce in their step. Their hair is tied up in an intricate bun, their tit* are popping in their favorite push-up bra, and their beard is freshly trimmed.

The day is so perfect it feels unbreakable. So when they look up from refilling the waters at a table and see three familiar shark-like grins, they think they’re hallucinating.

But the image isn’t fading.

Red, Green, Blue. A dreadful horror builds in Go’s stomach like a stone. They can’t move. They can’t even breathe.

“Took you long enough,” says Yonji, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m f*cking parched. The service here is pathetic.”

Ichiji and Niji chuckle.

Go is still completely frozen, even as the laughter fades and the sharp grins fade into displeased frowns.

“No greetings for your older brothers?” Ichiji asks boredly.

“We normally don’t let the help speak, but we’re making an exception, you know,” Niji says.

Go starts shaking.

“Hold on,” Ichiji says, leaning forward. “Can it feel fear, now?”

“There’s no way,” Yonji says, looking like he’s won the lottery, “Only Sanji is that pathetic.”

“No, look,” Niji points, “it’s terrified! That’s hilarious!”

All three of them erupt into laughter.

Go’s mind is totally blank, overwhelmed with shock and primal fear. Their body - reacting on combative instincts and habits from years of disrespectful customers - throws the glass pitcher at full force into Niji’s head.

Time slows down.

As the pitcher leaves their fingers, they have just enough awareness to realize that this is them moving. That they’ve thrown something. And as the distance between the projectile and their brother lessens, his eyes widen in recognition then fury in quick succession.

Time resumes. The decanter shatters against Niji’s face in a spray of water and broken glass.

Before it finishes exploding, Ichiji and Yonji are on top of Go, the former holding back their arms while the latter kicks them in the crotch.

“Tch.” Niji wipes his face with a napkin. “That’s the first time it’s bothered to fight back. Someone’s given it delusions, too.”

He stands, and Yonji steps aside. Ichiji’s grip tightens painfully. Faintly, they realize their body is trying to struggle out of the hold.

Niji backhands them across the face. It stings viciously, and a splatter of blood flies from their lips.

“We really missed having punching bags, you know,” Ichiji says, holding them steady while Niji’s knuckles collide over and over with their stomach. “The soldiers die too easily, and they don’t even cry like Sanji di—”

He’s cut off as some force jostles him. In front of them, a chair breaks over Yonji’s head and two long arms wrap around Niji like a constrictor snake.

That’s right. Diswan, Wasp, and Imakura are working today, they remember.

It’s a massacre.

Ichiji releases them and ducks a follow-up blow from Diswan. He delivers a devastating uppercut that knocks out several bloody teeth and launches him directly through the ceiling. There’s a heavy thud on the second floor, followed by a fresh wave of customer screams.

Niji throws his head back, slamming it into Imakura’s nose. Using the moment of shock, Niji throws off the grapple but holds Imakura’s left arm, yanking him close and collapsing the limb like an accordion. Then he flicks his wrist to snap all three segments in half at once. Imakura falls to his knees with a blood-curdling scream, eyes rolling back to whites. Niji stomps on his head for good measure, and there’s a sickening crunch.

Yonji snatches a broken chair leg right out of the air and turns on Wasp, skewering him through the gut. Wasp spits blood in his face - involuntary but spiteful - and Yonji snarls, yanking the splintered wood upwards like he’s unzipping his abdomen. Skin splits and blood pours out in a torrent. Wasp collapses.

All of this happens within the half-second it takes for Go to manage a single stumbling step backwards. They blink, and suddenly all their waiters are laid out in puddles of their own gore.

Back in the day, when Go didn’t have feelings, their brothers were just violent, predictable creatures to tolerate. Judge was the only one back then with any real power over their fate, so he’s been the one in their paranoia daydreams all this time. But now, with evidence of the power gap in front of them, a full spectrum of emotion, and everything to lose, Go finds themselves very, very afraid of their brothers.

Ichiji grabs them by the throat and hoists them into the air like they weigh nothing.

“It’s too bad we need this place as a hostage. I’m absolutely itching to sink it, right now. Watch all the little rats drown.”

They can feel bruises forming on their neck, but they don’t dare struggle.

“It’s a scouting run only,” Niji agrees with faux disappointment, brushing himself off. “Killing some waiters was a fun treat, though. Thanks for the excuse, Go.”

They flinch, causing Ichiji’s fingers to dig deeper into their neck.

“I know Big Mom is already sending someone to fetch Sanji, but a lot of her kids are real freaks,” Yonji says, tapping Wasp’s blood off his shoes and approaching Ichiji. “Maybe one of them would rather have a deformed f*cktoy. Or a pet.”

Ichiji smirks.

“Maybe, though Father’s going through a lot of trouble for Germa’s image... I guess a spare wouldn’t hurt. He considered snipping Go into a sister, back in the day. Worst case scenario, I’m sure he could try that.”

Go feels increasingly numb. There’s nothing they can do, floating in their brother’s grip. And the lack of oxygen encourages them to drift further and further away with every word.

“Well- oh. The cooks want some too?”

Go’s consciousness is shoved violently back into their body at Yonji’s words. They thrash desperately in Ichiji’s iron grip.

Zeff stands at the head of twenty chefs, pouring out of the kitchen with various weapons.

No.

Go can see it now, the floor of the restaurant littered with corpses, Zeff’s body mutilated under their brothers’ sad*stic whims and immeasurable strength.

They can’t shake their head so they sign, desperately, at their father.

‘DON’T FIGHT DON’T FIGHT DON’T FIGHT–’

Ichiji shakes them like a rag doll. Black spots flare in their vision.

“It cares about the one with the hat,” Yonji notes with a hint of glee. Bizarrely, he holds up a transponder snail and points it at Zeff with a click, taking a photo.

“That’s all we need,” Niji says lazily. “Let’s go, then.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere with my kid,” Zeff growls.

‘RUN LEAVE HIDE LEAVE LEAVE-‘

Ichiji shakes them again. The world slips away for a moment, but they manage to claw back to consciousness.

“-ever we want,” Ichiji’s saying, utterly bored.

Zeff is moving. Go doesn’t have enough strength to move their arms, and signs would do nothing to dissuade him, anyway. Tears roll down their face.

There’s a series of rapid clicks and a faint whir. Then, they’re yanked violently by the neck and everything goes black.

Go regains consciousness in the air, about 50 feet above the open ocean. They flinch in surprise and teeter precariously.

They’re tucked under Ichiji’s arm like luggage, as he flies through the air on some clearly-Germa ball shoes. Yonji and Niji are following behind him, wearing the same ugly kicks.

The Baratie grows smaller and smaller in the distance. Go was only out for a moment. But that’s plenty of time for their brothers to have killed Zeff, isn’t it? They don’t know if he survived. If Diswan, Imakura, or Wasp could have survived. The only inkling of hope they can hold onto is the fact that their brothers mentioned hostages, and that Yonji took that photo of Zeff alive, not dead.

f*ck, what the hell do they want? They mentioned Sanji. Someone is going after him. Big Mom? That sounds familiar. Who-?

An Emperor, they remember, with a shiver of dread. One of the four pirate emperors, Big Mom, is sending people after Sanji. Something about her kids. Go, apparently, might be sold to them as a sex slave. Which means Germa has some sort of business relationship with them - voluntary or otherwise.

There’s not enough pieces for Go to get a full picture. But the reality is this: Their brothers are taking them. If they escape, the entire Baratie dies. And Sanji is in danger.

“You’ve been annoyingly quiet,” Yonji says at them, voice raised over the wind. “You have emotions now, right? Shouldn’t you be groveling or whatever like Sanji used to do?”

Go snarls and flips him off.

Immediately, Ichiji drops them and their stomach swoops, as they hurdle towards the ocean with terrifying speed. Desperately, they maneuver into a dive and hope to hell and back that it’s enough to survive considering the few hundred feet they’ve climbed in the past few minutes. Go is somewhat superhuman, but at this distance? The impact could kill them.

As the waves rush to meet them, they’re stopped at the last second by a hand fisting the back of their jacket and slowing their descent. The fabric tears dangerously, but doesn’t fall apart.

“I wouldn’t be a little bitch while you’re under our watch,” Ichiji says. “You’re really not that valuable.”

Go scowls. Ichiji shoots back up into the sky.

“Answer Yonji’s f*cking question,” he orders, as he falls back into cadence with their brothers.

Pissed, they sign, ‘I can’t speak, dipsh*ts.’

Ichiji is just staring straight ahead, already checked out of the conversation, but Yonji and Niji look disgusted.

“None of that hand sh*t. Answer me.”

‘I am answering, but you’re too stupid to know that. I bet you love to suck each other off, you sick-‘

Ichiji shakes them, hard, without looking back.

“Answer or you hit the water this time.”

‘I can’t f*cking speak!’ Go signs again, aggressively, glaring at the two brothers actually paying attention.

Yonji just looks ready to take their head off. But Niji, they can tell, has put the pieces together. He knows it’s sign language, and that they clearly can’t speak. But he doesn’t say a f*cking word.

“Drop it again,” Yonji says, lip curled in distaste.

Go plummets. Their insides somersault and they do their best to keep their head between their arms in a dive.

Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die, they tell themselves. They have a restaurant to get back to. They have a girlfriend to hold again. And Sanji is in danger. They need to warn Sanji.

They hit the water.

It f*cking hurts. It’s a miracle their fingers don’t break. The entire outside of their body stings from the impact, and they can tell their arms are going to bruise to hell and back. But they’re still conscious. Still alive.

Painfully, they swim for the surface and gasp for air. Ichiji is already there, grabbing them by the bun to yank them a few feet out of the water. Yonji and Niji descend a moment later.

“Either you can answer your brother, or we can leave you here to die,” he says, bored as ever. “You’re about as useful as the second spare tire, Go, and much more offensive to look at.”

Aching, shivering, and at threat of drowning, they realize they have to f*cking try. They haven’t truly spoken in over a decade, at this point. Their only hope is a fluke from three years ago when they were half-dead and barely conscious. But maybe, just maybe, a miracle will happen again.

They open their mouth.

Yes, I have emotions.

Jaw, lips, tongue, and throat all freeze on the first letter. An impassable barrier, no matter how much air they try to push from their lungs. Panic grips them, as they realize just how much of them had been banking on that miracle. That they’d suddenly be able to speak when they needed it most.

But it doesn’t happen. Their eyes widen in fear, and their body jerks, trying to force out the words. It does nothing. Go will die here, taking twice as long to drown to death as the average person with their stupid superhuman lungs, all because they can’t f*cking speak.

Say it! Just f*cking say something! Anything!

“What the hell is wrong with it?” Yonji asks, head tilted.

They try different words, and syllables, but there is nothing. Go is mute.

“Go is mute,” Niji says, a disgusting grin spreading across his face. “Scared sh*tless and speechless.”

“Seriously?” Ichiji says, pulling their head back by the hair to look down at their face. “That’s pathetic. Even Sanji could talk.”

“Damn. I know we probably can’t pawn it off to Big Mom like this, but I’m still curious what Father would do with it,” Yonji says, eyeing them.

“Hm,” Ichiji hums. “He might be able to fix it, if he wanted a pet project. It’s not like Sanji or Reiju, it didn’t have emotions at the start.”

Their body goes rigid. A cold spear of dread lances them.

Go hadn’t even considered that. Judge mutilating their genitalia and imprisoning them have always been real and terrifying threats. Threats he reminded them about a million times over, back in the day. But in all their worst-case scenarios, Go had never even imagined that Judge would be interested in taking their emotions away.

Years of humanity and growth. Love and happiness, anger and fear. Sanji. Zeff. Kennedy. Skye. The flock. All those bonds, snuffed out in one twenty-minute surgery that severs the improvised neural pathways to their limbic system.

Go has changed their mind. They would rather die here. They start thrashing with renewed vigor.

“Oh, it really doesn’t like that,” Niji notes with interest.

“Let’s take it back, then,” Ichiji decides. “Father can determine if there’s anything of use left.”

No! Go wishes they could say. No, don’t you f*cking dare take me back!

But still, no words come out. Instead, Ichiji fishes them out of the ocean, hefts them like a sack of potatoes, and continues walking across the sky.

Go dissociates for a while. It’s easier, when they’re this terrified, this helpless. Easier in the cowardly sense.

Their brothers don’t bother addressing them, anymore; the novelty must have worn off. Or maybe they do, and Go is just so far gone they don’t hear it. Hard to say. But they aren’t dropped again. That would almost be a mercy.

Go surfaces when they’re dumped roughly on carpet-over-concrete. They push themselves onto hands and knees and stare down and the familiar red rug.

The throne room.

Despite the fact that they are much bigger than they were when they last stood in this grand hall, they have never felt so dwarfed by the vaulted ceilings and massive, gaudy chair.

The king himself sits on his throne, sporting the usual look of disgust he always wears in Go’s presence. They could almost believe no time has passed at all - that the last thirteen years were nothing but a fever dream - if not for the horrible, pounding fear that thrums in their chest, arresting their every movement. Stealing their breath. They never felt fear in this place before. And looking back, Go thinks maybe that was rather foolish.

Reiju stands beside him, looking equal parts an attendant and a decoration. She has two giant “6” tattoos branded across her thighs, that their brothers almost certainly don’t have. Her face is a perfect, expressionless mask, as it always is in public.

“Go.” Judge says flatly.

Their heart hammers dangerously. But they force themselves to their feet and manage to meet his eye with the power of pure spite.

You hurt Sanji, Go thinks, the least I can do is hate you properly. Hate you with everything I have. Hate without room for fear.

“We found them on the restaurant boat,” Ichiji reports. Go catches how he finally uses their actual pronouns in public, with the servants around. The “it” thing started after they were locked away. Go is only an object when they’re not royalty for the purposes of Judge’s precious will. How kind.

“They’re mute,” Niji adds, “though they can hear just fine. And they’ve developed emotions.”

Judge sits a little straighter. Go’s blood curdles.

“Fascinating. All of them?”

Yonji shrugs. “Definitely fear. And happiness, before they saw us. The others are all kinda in between those, right?”

f*cking hell, Yonji is so f*cking stupid. He hasn’t changed at all since he was eight.

“I think that one’s anger,” he adds, pointing. Go has to actively restrain themselves from biting the moron’s finger and proving him right.

“Curious,” Judge says, studying them. Go hates his guts. They imagine tearing across the room and clawing out his eyes. They imagine ripping up the gaudy carpet and smothering him with it. They imagine chaining him to the ceiling by the neck and letting him hang like they did in that codpiece.

This is the man who hurt Sanji. Deeply, and irreparably scarred their brother. They f*cking hate him.

“Welcome back, Princeps Go,” Judge says, voice official. “The servants will prepare your chambers. In the meantime, your sister will help you clean up.”

He snaps his fingers and people are moving. The roiling dread in Go’s stomach returns with a vengeance.

“You’ll want to be presentable for the tea party, after all.”

The first thing Reiju does, after dragging them into the bathroom and undressing them, is shave their beard.

It shouldn’t feel so dehumanizing. Maybe it’s the way she’s silent as she does it. Or her efficiency; not even a moment’s pause between the razor’s appearance and the first strands hitting the floor for Go to mourn.

When the beard is gone, and the mustache too, she moves on to their chest hair. Their armpits. Legs. And then their happy trail. She doesn’t make them remove their underwear, but all things considered, it’s only a matter of hours before a doctor will be shaving down there too, prepping for a humiliating exam or even surgery.

They dissociate through a lot of it. There’s not much to do but sit there and let her destroy the body they’ve made for themselves and spent hours lovingly grooming. The body that their family knows them in, that their girlfriend loves to run her hands over. They’re cold, and too light, and it cruelly reminds them of the first few hours out of that damn helmet, despite feeling nothing like freedom.

When there is nothing left to shave, she starts to undo their hair. For one horrific moment, they worry she’s going to shave their head, too. But all she does is take a hairbrush from the counter and start brushing it out. Methodical and steady. The rhythm is the exact same as when Sanji does it, but the tenderness is not there. This is a task for her, not an act of love. Go couldn’t stomach any pretense of that here anyway. The familiarity alone makes them sick.

When she finishes, she puts the brush down, and doesn’t move for a moment. She just stares at the back of their head.

“I will go collect clothes from the servants now, while you bathe.”

These are the first words Reiju has spoken to them in fifteen years.

They nod, dully.

She leaves. They finish stripping robotically and shower with the efficiency of a true sailor. When they’re done, they only tie the towel around their waist, instead of their chest. It’s the tiniest possible rebellion they can enact, and Reiju probably won’t be interested in beating them for it, unless she’s radically changed since they left.

They open the door that she left through, and realize this bathroom is attached to her own bedchamber. In hindsight, it makes sense that Reiju didn’t just take Go to a random bathroom, where any servant might walk in.

Reiju sits on the edge of her tidy four-poster bed, a few feet away from a stack of neatly-folded clothes. She’s watching Go with interest, but they’re too exhausted to feel exposed or offended. They simply unfold the clothes and inspect them.

It’s nearly identical to Reiju’s outfit - probably adapted from it. Plain white bra, panties, and satin dress with a lavender cravat around the neck instead of her pale pink one.

The ribbon color reminds them of Kennedy’s favorite sun hat, and they feel a pang of sadness.

They had a date tonight.

She’s probably arriving at the Baratie now, anticipating their usual dinner. Go was planning to set up a picnic on the floor of the second story balcony, for a change in scenery. Instead, Go is gone without a trace, apparently kidnapped by three guys cosplaying comic book characters, and she’ll witness the aftermath of the slaughter; three people critically wounded or dead, maybe more if their brothers did anything else while they were unconscious.

Diswan, Imakura, and Wasp. f*cking Wasp. Wasp doesn’t even like them, and he got gutted on their behalf. He’s the least likely to survive of all of them, and he was just doing his goddamn job. They all were.

They’re going to die because Go couldn’t resist splashing a little water on their bully.

“Go,” Reiju says.

Ah, they’ve been standing here unmoving for several seconds. Dully, they pick up the very feminine panties. They hold them. Don’t move beyond that. Can’t.

“Is it true, that you have a full range of emotions?” Reiju asks.

They blink, staring at her. This could so easily be a fact-checking assignment from Judge. But for the life of them, they can’t find any advantage in lying about it. Their brothers have seen enough to make them miserable, and Judge has seen enough to give them a lab rat position. Whether they only had two emotions or two hundred, it wouldn’t f*cking matter, would it?

They nod, tired.

Reiju watches them curiously. Then she stands, primly, and walks over to her make-up vanity. She crouches beneath it and fiddles with something. Then she walks back to Go and speaks quietly.

“I’ve turned off the audio surveillance. Can you talk?”

Go has never felt more hollow.

‘I’m really just mute,’ they sign, not even bothering to shake their head.

Reiju frowns.

“I’ll try to learn some of that when I can, then,” she murmurs, with a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry they dragged you back.”

‘Worthless,’ Go replies, face blank.

Whether she guesses the meaning or not, Reiju walks away, and fiddles with the vanity once again, presumably turning the surveillance back on.

“You should get dressed.”

The satin wears like a shroud.

Chapter 19: First Day Back in Hell

Chapter Text

Go would dissociate through dinner, too, if they weren’t so f*cking on-edge in Judge’s presence.

Their brothers make sh*tty comments about their appearance, and their mutism, and their restaurant. Reiju says nothing. Judge intently watches their misery grow like a festering petri dish.

They do their best to tune it out, to remember what they did as a child to endure it. The answer is that they didn’t care. But even in childhood, as a totally unresisting wall, their brothers still had fun harassing them, so it’s not like ignoring them is actually dissuasive in any way.

Would fighting back be worse? Probably. Certainly a lot more effort for minimal gain, at the very least.

Go finally chokes down the last bite of tasteless fancy garbage, and they’re ready to hide away and dissociate until morning, when Judge addresses them.

“Did you ever get around to fixing your genitalia?”

Go drops their fork.

There is no way they heard that correctly. Judge has always been blunt about correcting their flaws, but always in the labs or in his office. Never in public.

“The micropenis,” Judge clarifies. At the f*cking dinner table.

Reiju coughs uncomfortably. Their brothers snicker.

This isn’t real. Go is having one of those lucid nightmares they’ve read about.

“A nod or a head shake will suffice.”

Go stares at this man they already hated a thousand times over, and is shocked to discover they can hate him even more, somehow.

Consequences be damned, Go slams their hands on the table and stands, knocking over their water and the chair behind them. They throw a middle finger up at Judge, then turn heel and stalk out of the dining room.

“Boys, feel free to teach Go a lesson if you see them in the halls.” Judge’s voice carries. “They heal quickly enough that visible marks won’t be a problem.”

They find their quarters, and they don’t take any chances; they grab a bunch of spare blankets and pillows and build a sad f*cking bed mat in the walk-in closet. Hopefully, if their brothers break in during the night, they’ll take one look at the empty bed and assume Go has hidden away in a different room. Go might have actually hidden away in another room, if they weren’t avoiding the hallway at all costs.

It’s not even overkill. Middle-of-the-night ambush beatings were common in their childhood. And now that Judge has basically hired their brothers as punishing goons, it’s practically guaranteed.

Germa’s obsession with concrete screws them over twofold on the closet floor, unforgivingly hard and cold. The thin layer of carpet between it and them is a laughable pretense.

Laying there, staring at the ceiling, they wonder.

Is this the rest of my life?

No, their first instinct tells them. Their life is the Baratie, with Zeff and Kennedy and their flock of morons, Sanji writing letters and coming home to visit one day. That’s the rest of their life.

But how? How could they ever possibly return to that? The Vinsmokes have them by the neck. If they flee, the Baratie dies. Go is nowhere near strong enough to protect it from any of their awful brothers, let alone all three.

A cold, sickly dread settles in their stomach.

They will never be free again. Unless, by some miracle, every single Vinsmoke suddenly drops dead, Go can never leave. Everything they know and love is under Judge’s boot. Forever.

It can’t be true.

They’ve built a life, grown so much, since fleeing this place. They have family, and friends, and a job they enjoy. They have an identity and found comfort in their own skin.

Is it all gone in a single day? On Germa’s whim?

Panic grips them. If that’s the case, they don’t have anything to live for, do they?

No.

Go draws a hard line in their mind. They can’t think that yet. They’re back in Germa, but there’s a reason for their kidnapping. Their brothers were on Baratie for a scouting mission.

Sanji.

They’re suddenly re-oriented. Like a spinning compass finding north. When in doubt, go back to basics; Go protects Sanji. Whatever triggered all this involves him.

It’s decided, then. Tomorrow, they start gathering information. To piece together exactly what’s going on, and why Judge suddenly gives a rat’s ass about either of them.

They’re not letting Sanji get dragged back here too.

In the morning, they emerge from the closet achy and grimly resolved, which scares the absolute sh*t out of the woman cleaning their bedchamber.

“Princeps Go!” She startles, dropping an armful of clean sheets and then immediately falling prostrate. “Please forgive me, I did not know you were here. I shouldn’t have intruded.”

Go cringes, realizing just how horribly their brothers must treat their staff based on her reaction.

They can’t even speak to reassure her. Instead they tread softly towards her, and gently grasp her arm, pulling her up.

‘I’m not like that,’ Go signs, shaking their head sadly.

“I’m- I’m sorry, my princeps, I don’t know sign language,” she bows.

Go sighs. That wasn’t really the point.

Instead they point to her, and give a thumbs up.

“O-oh?” She stares at them. “Um, thank you, my princeps.” She dips her head. “Is- should I continue changing your sheets? Or would you rather me leave?”

They didn’t even touch the bed last night. It’d be a waste of her energy. But they’d rather not send her out into the hands of their sh*tty brothers sooner than she needs to, so they decide she can help them with something else.

Go pinches the fabric of their dress and nods towards it, then gestures to the maid.

“You want me to do your laundry instead?”

Go frowns, making a so-so motion. They walk over to the massive wardrobe (this place sucks so bad - a wardrobe and a walk-in closet?) and open it, revealing the empty insides. Gesture from it, to the dress, to her.

“You don’t have any other clothes?” She asks.

Go breaks into a grin, nodding and tapping their nose in confirmation.

“Oh! Of course, my princeps, I can find some for you at once. It will be full by the end of the day.”

‘Thank you,’ they sign, because even if she can’t understand it, she deserves gratitude from someone in this hellhole.

Go decides to skip half an hour of verbal abuse at breakfast by heading straight to the kitchens to scavenge. In hindsight, this is a total Sanji move, and they should have known it wouldn’t work.

All three brothers are lounging like house cats outside the kitchen doors, and perk up when Go turns the corner.

Oh, f*ck.

They run.

It’s pointless. They know it’s pointless. Their first real conversation with Sanji was, in fact, delineating just how pointless it is to run from these beatings.

But Go from the past was an unfeeling prick. Current Go understands fear very intimately, and is also much weaker in comparison to them, now. These days, Go is to their brothers as Sanji was during their childhood.

They careen down the hall, not bothering to slow down to take corners, letting themselves slam into walls just to pivot faster. Servants in the underbelly of the flagship dive out of their way, knowing full well their lives are forfeit in the presence of the kingdom’s princes.

Thudding feet grow closer. Go’s heart pounds louder.

There’s a door at the end of the hall. Hopefully it opens outward, because Go doesn’t have time to use the handle. They crash through it - literally, they ram into it with their full super-strength to knock the locking mechanism through the frame, wood splintering.

Bright light floods their vision; they’re outside. They vaguely recognize the area and take off in the direction they think the gardens might be. If they can lose them in the trees long enough, they might get bored.

Yonji’s hyena laugh fills the air. One of the ugliest sounds in the world.

They whip around medieval brutalist facility number three million, onto the road that should break away into the park promenade. Instead, there’s a huge f*ckoff stadium with bleachers.

No time to care. Go’s steps don’t falter, and they vault over the wall into the arena, then duck into the scaffolding beneath the bleachers, burrowing and hiding in the most hard-to-reach crevice like a rat. And they wait.

The metal bleachers clang and the supports groan. Heavy footsteps. Their brothers are directly above them.

Go holds still. They don’t even dare to breathe.

“Come on out, little fa*ggot,” Ichiji croons.

“Chasing is one thing,” Yonji calls. “but we won’t hesitate to cripple you if we have to drag you out of some hole every time.”

You couldn’t find a hole in a puss* factory, dumbf*ck.

The footsteps stop. For one horrible, horrible moment, Go wonders if they’ve said that out loud in their hysteria.

And then a hand grabs the back of their dress and slams their head into the metal support beams with a CLANG!

Everything spins, and the hand keeps yanking, over and over, slamming Go’s head with unbelievable force, until their vision swims and the world is nothing but a high-pitched whine in their ears.

There’s pain in other places, suddenly. Blows to their stomach, their back, face, crotch. Red, Blue, and Green swirl above them. Their brothers kicking the sh*t out of them in a circle, a pack of ugly, feral dogs.

Eventually, the beating ends - their brothers must have gotten bored. Go manages to turn onto their side and piece together what happened.

The thick scaffolding beams are peeled away in a part like tin foil. Niji must have ripped it apart with his bare hands to drag them out.

Every nerve in their body is either bruised or malfunctioning from the likely brain hemorrhage. But they’re not dying. Not even close. Their stupid f*cking superhuman body can take this a dozen times over. It’s just painful and humiliating to think about this happening every single day for the rest of their life.

Go rolls onto their back and groans at the sky. They can’t think about that now. They’ll figure it out later. Right now, they’re living to protect Sanji. They have to learn Germa’s plans.

Half an hour later, Reiju finds them and scrapes them off the pavement.

“You ran,” she notes, their arm slung over her shoulder.

Go grunts. She’s taking them to one of the hospitals. Even after all these years, they know every route to every hospital and lab on the flagship den den by heart. Could probably navigate to them better than a compass could find north.

It’s possible Reiju is only taking them to get bandaged up, but it’s much more plausible that Judge sent her to fetch them. After their disrespect last night, he’s probably eager to start the usual humiliating medical exams. Probably came up with some new ones, too, that sad*stic f*ck.

I hate him. He hurt Sanji, so I hate him.

“You never ran, before,” Reiju says. “You considered it pointless.”

Go huffs. What‘s it matter to her? Reiju never bothered conversing with them, before, because she considered it pointless. Now, she talks to them despite the fact that they can’t respond. Pot, meet kettle.

“You’ve changed,” she says, softly. Sadly.

They’ve both changed. But they’re both still here.

Predictably, the moment they’re through the swinging doors of the hospital, nurses are peeling stained satin off them with the same uncaring practice as a seasoned hunter skinning a deer.

Reiju is gone with the whirlwind. Go is completely naked, and shoved through a decontamination shower that also happens to be a regular one at the moment, thanks to the blood. Then jets of pressurized air blast them dry in seconds. They aren’t given any clothes to replace what the nurses took, not even a medical gown. They wait for a full minute, just in case someone is going to pop in with one. No one does.

So they limp out of the chamber - there wasn’t even a pretense of treatment for their injuries, by the way - into an unfortunately familiar examination theater.

Sterile and white in every way, obnoxiously bright fluorescents that flicker so constantly and imperceptibly fast that all it does is cause a headache. A medical table in the center, with spread foot stirrups and plenty of mechanical hinges to orient and expose its subject in any desired way, using the pedals. On the wall in front of it, a few meters off the ground, is a long, opaque glass pane that leads to the observation room.

Every time Go was here before, it was with intense boredom. And irritation, sometimes, that none of the hormone treatments were working. But now, with access to their emotions, everything is so sharp it’s surreal. Mounting dread, humiliation, and queasiness gnaw at their insides.

Go feels suddenly very stupid. Of course their phobia of hospitals isn’t solely about the potential for mutilation or blood tests. It’s thanks to this place. They assumed that because they weren’t afraid at the time, it didn’t affect them. But staring at that godforsaken cot, they realize it still managed to write trauma into their bones, even if they couldn’t feel it happening.

They have PTSD. They’ve had it the entire goddamn time.

A masked doctor in scrubs leads them to the table. Go is too stunned to resist, until the doctor turns them around and their ass hits the familiar cold surface. Then their hindbrain kicks in.

Go can’t lay on that table again.

They swat the man’s hands off of them and he stumbles backwards.

Out. They need to get out of here.

The shower.

They take off towards it. Another scrubbed doctor leaps in their way, but Go bowls him over. They need to be outside. The buzzing of lights and tang of antiseptic is maddening. They need fresh, salty sea air and the sound of waves on the Baratie’s hull.

But before they can make it past the curtain, a sheet of metal falls over the opening.

No.

Go throws themselves at it. Pounds. But it’s no use. It won’t give, not even to superhuman strength. They’re a wild animal thrashing against a snare. Desperate, furious, hopeless.

“Go.” A voice crackles from the speakers. Go freezes. They remember this. Judge is in the observation room. He sometimes uses the microphone in there to make comments and direct.

“Lay down on the table, or I’ll gas the room and have them strap you down.”

Go’s knees tremble at the thought of being drugged on that table. It takes more than basic sleeping gas to actually affect them. If Judge isn’t bluffing, then he’ll be flooding the whole place with one of Germa’s disgustingly unethical neurotoxins, that render victims highly suggestible and can also cause some nasty lasting nerve damage, if you’re lucky enough not to be the one-in-twenty people who die on the spot. Go doubts they’d die. But it’d also take a nerve-frying concentration to affect them, so it’s really not worth the risk.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

They use it as a mantra, with every step towards that f*cking bed.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

They sit. They lie down.

I hate him. I hate him. I HATE HIM.

They place their legs in the spread stirrups. The doctors converge and tighten straps around their ankles.

“Good. Let’s begin.”

They’ve been on the table for a few hours now. Dissociating. Not numb - never fully numb with that man around - but as close as they can get.

Every time Judge’s voice crackles into the room it startles them awake with a jolt. This particularly sucks when there are metal hooks in their cervix.

“The results?” He’s asking.

“Yes, sir!” A doctor with a clipboard salutes. “The lab technicians are bringing you a copy now.”

“Give me the highlights.”

“No disease or infections, bacteria levels normal. Uterine lining is healthy for this stage in the estimated cycle. Reproductive system is fully functional, virtually identical to a normal female of their age, and even fertile. The only significant deviations are urologic, cosmetic, and hormonal.”

“Hm,” Judge hums into the mic. There’s a sound of flipping pages. “Collect as many eggs as you can for now and send them to cloning lab two immediately. We’ll start a cycle of fertility injections to extract more next time.”

Go feels sick. Around them, doctors are moving.

Muffled, like he’s talking to someone else but still near the mic, Judge issues more orders. “Use half on rush batches, just to see what develops. I want extensive notes on brain development, particularly the limbic system. Put the other half in stasis for now. Depending on the quantity, we might need a second collection before trying a full-”

They don’t hear the rest, because their hands are being strapped to the table. Go loses all composure, jerking against the restraints, but it’s a metal too sturdy and thick for even them to deform. The doctors move to their abdomen, to strap that down as well. Panicked, Go bucks their hips, forgetting about the metal instruments holding open their cervix. There’s a sensation that feels an awful lot like ripping and they immediately go limp in terror. A flimsy leather belt tightens around their waist, but at this point they wouldn’t even consider moving again.

“Don’t bother with sedation,” Judge’s voice says boredly. “It won’t take.”

They’re unstrapped several hours later, scraped raw in every possible way. The doctors do not return their ruined dress, but instead give them a patient’s smock and ask them to wait around for someone to fetch fresh clothes.

Go is not interested in remaining here for even another moment. They walk out, limping across the streets of the Germa Kingdom in a hospital gown, and slip back into the castle through the still-broken door they busted down at breakfast.

It’s 4 PM and they haven’t eaten anything today, but they’d rather kill themselves than attend dinner after today’s sh*tshow. So they stop by the kitchens to palm a full loaf of bread and a huge wedge of cheese.

One young dishwasher looks ready to chase them out with a broom, because they probably look more like something with mange than the princeps of his country. But a hand flies over his mouth at the last moment and every single employee aggressively averts their gaze until Go leaves.

It’s not at all like the Baratie’s kitchen. Chefs would be cussing them out and Zeff would be kicking their ass for stealing. The meek terror from everyone here is just… depressing.

Go eats the world’s most pathetic picnic on the floor of their room, tearing off hunks of bread and washing each mouthful down with a bite of cheese right off the rind. Their throat is dry as hell so they stick their face under the bathroom faucet until it’s not.

When the food is gone they stand half-comatose in the center of the room, staring at nothing, trying to decide whether just falling asleep now, in the nude, would make them feel better or worse after today’s violation.

There’s a knock on the door.

Go flinches.

“My Princeps,” says a soft woman’s voice. “Permission to enter?”

Go still can’t f*cking talk, so they don’t even bother moving. They let her turn the handle and peek inside

“Oh! You didn’t- my apologies, Princeps Go.”

It’s the same woman from this morning.

Mind running on fumes, Go waves hello, face expressionless.

Absolutely befuddled, the maid waves back.

“I- May I come in, your highness?”

Ugh, Go really hates that honorific in particular. But that’s not her fault, so they nod her inside.

“Your wardrobe is stocked with as much as I could procure. More of what you’ve been wearing, as well as some supplementary pieces. I also managed to find this.”

She holds out the bundle in her arms. Go’s breath hitches.

It’s their suit. Torn and scuffed from the fight and the fall, but freshly laundered and pressed. On top rests their bra, boxers, and-

In a daze, Go reaches for it. Part of them is worried it’s an illusion - that their fingers will pass right through it.

Their custom pen and waiter’s notebook.

After the day they’ve had, it’s too much. Go keens, and big wet tears roll down their face. They squeeze the bundle close, sobbing into it.

“Ah! I’m so sorry! Please, forgive me-“

Go pulls this sweet, terrified stranger into a bone-crushing hug.

“Oh!” She yelps. But she pats their back. They heave a fresh sob into her shoulder.

They stay like that for a mortifyingly embarrassing length of time before reluctantly pulling away. Go wipes all the tears and snot away with the front of the medical gown and collects themselves with a dignified sniff, before summoning the courage to look up at the maid.

Oh sh*t. They don’t even know her name.

‘Thank you,’ Go signs, sincerely as they can. ‘…and sorry.’ Because they did just grab her without consent, and Zeff would have their head for that.

They give her a bow, for good measure.

“AH!” She nearly screams, “No, don’t, please don’t bow to me! I’m just the help!”

Go lifts their head and glares, a look that says “shut up” over every language barrier. They’re going to thank this woman, goddamn it. No one asked her to salvage their clothes or the contents of the pockets, and Go didn’t even have a way to request she look for them. But she took the time out of her no-doubt overburdened schedule working for the sh*ttiest family in the world to do this. After the traumatic ordeal that was Go’s first full day back in hell, this small kindness will give them just enough strength to roll out of bed in the morning.

Flustered, the maid soon takes her leave, but not before showing Go where she stocked the dressing gowns. It’ll be nice not to sleep in a skin-tight satin shift.

When they open the closet, they realize that the haphazard bed mat of blankets has been… made, for lack of a better word. They’re all laid out perfectly flat, and there’s even a few extra quilts and pillows in a stack on the top.

f*ck, their eyes are threatening to cry again. The maid must have opened the closet to store the shoes - lined neatly along the back wall - and seen their insane nest. And instead of whisking it away, like a regular person doing their job, she tidied it and made it more comfortable.

Go climbs into blankets, much warmer than yesterday, and flips through their waiter’s notebook.

It’s built to easily swap out paper bindings, so they’ve been using the same jacket since the sh*tty geezer first gave it to them. Running their fingers over the leather, they are so, so grateful that this wasn’t lost, for countless reasons. The most important being they now have physical proof that the better half of their life wasn’t all some strange prolonged fantasy. They have a real father out there who loves them, who taught Sanji to cook and chase his dreams, unlike the monster who locked him away.

Inside the lip of the leather, Go digs around until they find what they carefully stashed away.

The Momoiro Island vivre card.

Keeping it in cleavage is all sexy and convenient until you accidentally take it into the shower a few times. Or it falls on your girlfriend during sex. After a few close calls, they hid the card in their notebook instead, since it’s always on their person anyway. And god are they glad for it, because otherwise it would have been thrown out when Reiju first stripped them. Or worse, given to Judge.

Gingerly, they place the card flat atop the leather, watching it twitch slowly in the direction of their mysterious second home.

Despite today’s horrors, they allow their aching heart to warm, knowing that somewhere out there, at least, they have two whole families that love them, no matter what they are.

Chapter 20: Unwilling Patriot

Chapter Text

Go attends breakfast in the morning. The verbal abuse sucks, but it’s better than being jumped. And they also recognize, begrudgingly, that in order to gather any sort of information on Big Mom and her plans for Sanji, they’re going to have to actually spend time with the Vinsmokes.

That doesn’t mean they have to enjoy it, though.

The meal is tasteless in every interpretation of the word. Their brothers are insulting. The food is like ash. Judge is there.

Go listens dutifully to every jab and derogatory comment out of their f*cking mouths in the hope of finding some slipped context. There’s nothing. It’s a waste of time, energy, and self-esteem. Which proves to be especially wasted when Judge clears his throat to discuss business at the end of the meal and drops a huge ass bombshell for free.

“Big Mom’s subordinates have located Sanji.”

Oh sh*t.

All three of their brothers smirk. Reiju doesn’t react. Go still has no idea what Germa’s relationship with Big Mom is in this scenario. It has to be cordial, right? If he knows this? Unless Germa’s information network is just that good. They found out about the Baratie, after all.

“He fled, but the agents are in pursuit now. The invitation should be delivered in a matter of days.”

…Invitation? The f*ck?

“In the meantime, the collapse of Joker’s distribution line means we’ve had a large influx of commissions. You all have assignments.”

A soldier comes forward with a stack of folders and places one before each sibling, except Go.

“I trust you can wrap them up before the tea party. They’re all pretty straightforward conflicts. And at least one genocide for Ichiji, if I recall.”

Ichiji hums boredly in acknowledgement, like Judge asked him to pass the salt, not kill an entire culture of people.

Go has whiplash. The name Joker is new. And a tea party; Judge mentioned one when they first arrived. Is that what the invitation is about?

“Hopefully, by the time you return, I’ll have fixed Go’s more obvious defects so that they can attend the tea party as well. The stronger our presence, the more we can leverage in negotiations.”

Go’s heart stops. They grip their armrest so tight the wood splinters. But it doesn’t matter, because none of the table is looking at them anyway.

“Shame,” Yonji says, still reading the file. “They were more fun this way.”

“Shut up,” Niji replies boredly, absorbed in his own, “Father’s decision.”

Yonji rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t disagreeing,” he mutters.

“May I ask, Father,” Reiju speaks up for the first time all meal. Come to think of it, this is the first time she’s spoken to Judge since Go got here. “Which corrections are you prioritizing?”

This might be the kindest thing Reiju’s ever done for them. Which isn’t saying much, but at the very least Go can learn what sort of f*cked up torture they’re in for.

“The muteness is the most pressing issue,” Judge says.

Holy sh*t. Go can’t believe their luck. That’s maybe the one “correction” Judge could choose that actually benefits them in some way.

“Scans indicate it’s purely psychosomatic, so crippling the limbic system should take care of that and the emotions at the same time.”

Nevermind.

Go stands up, chair screeching on the tile. Judge lazily turns an eye to them.

‘I won’t let you touch me, you sick f*ck. I’ll rip your f*cking nuts off. I’ll kill every doctor that f*cking looks at me. I’ll-’

“Yonji,” Judge sighs, irritated.

A fist collides with their skull and they hit the ground hard.

“Interesting. Thank you, Father,” Reiju says politely. “I was curious.”

Go stands, wiping blood from the corner of their mouth and glaring murderously at Judge.

“You all depart tomorrow morning,” he says, picking up a newspaper. “I don’t need Go in the lab until noon today, so you have a few hours to say goodbye.”

Their brothers, of course, are going to come looking for one last beating. Go, worried they might forcibly lose all will to resist them after today, decides they’re going to put up a goddamn fight.

They walk to the center of that arena from yesterday, sit cross-legged on the ground, and wait.

Not even five minutes pass before garish colors appear in the opponent’s archway leading to the ring. Go stands, rolling their shoulders and falling into a ready combat stance.

“Ha!” Yonji barks a laugh. “That’s cute, it’s trying to fight.”

They bare their teeth.

“Any one of us could put you down like a dog without trying,” Niji says boredly. “Fighting all three of us is laughable.”

Maybe. But Zeff didn’t raise them to roll over and take sh*t. They consider themselves something of an honorary pirate, growing up on the Baratie. If this is the last chance they have to actually stand up for themselves, they’re going to fight with dignity. And when they run out of dignity, they’ll fight tooth and nail without it, too.

“What do you think?” Ichiji asks the other two. “Should we take turns having fun? See how long it lasts?”

“I’m game,” Yonji grins.

In the end, Go lasts two full rounds against each of them - their brothers are very much playing with their food. Go scrapes by in a third against Ichiji, before Niji knees them in the spine with a shock of electricity strong enough that they finally can’t get back up, no matter how hard they try.

They get their elbows under them and push. But pain lances through them so quick and sharp that they see white and collapse again.

Niji takes the opportunity to stomp on their left arm, which loses feeling with a sudden CRACK.

Go blacks out for half a second. When they regain vision, their forearm is bent at a forty-five degree angle. Like there’s an extra joint.

Just like Imakura, they think deliriously.

And then they process that this very broken limb is attached to their body.

A scream rips from their chest, loud and raw. It sounds f*cking harrowing, and hurts their throat like a bitch. Go hasn’t made much noise in the past ten years beyond grunts and hums - they didn’t even know they could scream like this.

“Shut up,” Niji says, kicking them in the head. It’s not hard enough to do more damage, but it does send a fresh gush of blood out their nose.

The pain knocks a little sense into them and they go silent. Nothing more than a bloody pile.

“Perfect timing,” Ichiji says somewhere behind them. “It’s just about noon, anyway.”

Two hours. With every ounce of their resistance, Go managed to last two hours. It’s honestly longer than they expected, considering they don’t really train beyond what’s needed for the restaurant. But it’s still only two hours against one brother at a time, where none of them are even fighting seriously.

“Boo, I didn’t even get a third round,” Yonji whines.

“Whatever. You wouldn’t have time anyway. Father’s already here.”

Go tenses and instantly regrets it as every cell in their body protests with searing pain. They bite back a pathetic whine.

“Load them onto a stretcher,” Judge orders. “A round of basic repairs and then send them to neurology.”

Two men in uniforms grab them roughly, and the resulting pain from being jostled is enough to make them pass out for real.

When they wake up, their arm isn’t broken anymore. Neither are their ribs, or their nose. Not even Go’s superhuman body can heal five compound fractures that fast, which means Germa must have administered some external bullsh*t to accelerate their internal bullsh*t.

They’re on a hospital bed - a normal one, thankfully, not the one with the stirrups - strapped down with belts all the way up every limb. It’s kind of flattering; Go never needed to be restrained as a kid. Judge must recognize their threat to kill doctors on an instinctual level, despite not actually understanding sign.

There’s an IV in their arm, and a pair of sticky wire nodes on their temples, which makes Go pause, because how the hell would they be sticking there unless-

Did that motherf*cker shave a mullet on me?

It’s probably not even symmetrical, is the worst part. These sh*tty doctors probably just shaved until what they needed was clear, and made a f*cking mockery of Go’s beautiful hair. Go took all the sh*t in the world for using shampoo and conditioner on a goddamn pirate ship, where all the heathens just use bar soap, and Germa just shaved off two random chunks of their hair. Down to the skin.

Unbelievable. This place just keeps getting worse.

They don’t have time to be properly pissed about it, because the room is crawling with doctors, reading numbers, images, and moving charts on a row of screens, presumably all readings from Go’s own body.

“Good.” Go flinches at the sound of Judge’s voice over yet another speaker. “Subject is awake. Let’s get started.”

That familiar spike of fear hits them, the one they’re learning to associate with sterile white walls and pungent disinfectant.

On the wall, a number that’s likely their heart rate climbs rapidly. Nurses and technicians quietly read statistics out into microphones, all on top of each other, filling the room with a cacophony of endless crosstalk that Go realizes isn’t going to stop until they have successfully scraped the humanity out of their skull like the guts of a pumpkin.

“Trial one,” drones a nearby doctor into a microphone. “Neurotoxin 4C-82, concentration 60%."

As he speaks, another doctor switches out their clear IV drip for something cloudy.

Go’s instincts take control and they struggle against the restraints, but their combined strength is as tough as the metal from yesterday. Their arms barely tremble.

Helplessly, they watch the new liquid slide down the tube and into their body. The crook of their arm feels slightly numb where the needle pierces.

For a good minute, nothing happens. Go’s heart continues to pound at a terrifying rate, as they wait with unbearable tension for their entire personality to vanish.

They don’t feel anything like that. Though they do start to feel a bit… floaty. A little less sharp. It reminds them of the times they’ve suffocated, but not as painful. Their limbs are just a little heavier, their senses a bit harder to read.

Oh, no, they know this. They know this well. They’re on the cusp of dissociation. Head just above the water before they plunge down and retreat for a bit. Let everything happen on the surface, and watch from a safe distance.

It sounds nice. Go has been so miserable these past few days. They can hardly remember why, but they feel the fatigue, the stress of it to their core. It’s a siren song to succumb.

There’s only a small nagging voice telling them they need to pay attention. That they want to know what’s going on. So they stay close to the surface of the water, able to see and hear but not quite comprehend, because they don’t think they can bring themselves to understand right now.

“Solution should start to inhibit neurons in amygdala and limbic cortex right about now.”

“Can you hear me?”

People are talking.

“Open your mouth if you can understand me.”

Their voices are deep. Soothing.

“Princeps Go, can you hear me?”

Go. That’s their name. They blink in recognition.

“Open your mouth if you can hear me, Princeps Go.”

Their name again. They blink, slowly.

“Subject is minimally responsive. Incapable of rudimentary motor functions.”

“Cut the dose to 50%,” Judge says.

Judge. Danger. Hatred. Sanji. Danger. Go surfaces immediately and violently with a gasp, struggling against the restraints.

They’re in a lab, there’s a chemical in them. They’re being poisoned. They need to get out of this bed.

Voices swirl around them, doctors talking louder and louder to be heard over each other’s urgency. Some start shouting at them, but they can’t hear it. They need to get out of here.

“Go.” Judge’s voice cuts through it all like a scalpel. They freeze immediately, petrified.

There’s a long pause. Go doesn’t breathe.

“Open your mouth,” Judge orders.

They won’t. They hate him. They hate him.

“Open your mouth, or the Baratie sinks.”

Terror grips them. Home.

Go’s mouth falls open on its own. They’re trembling with a horrible blend of exertion and fear.

“Good. Now speak.”

Their body is simultaneously too wired and too exhausted. It’s taking all their willpower not to break their arms on the restraints or just pass out. They can’t possibly speak.

“Speak, or they die, Go.”

The world is nothing but Judge’s voice and the pound of their own heartbeat in their ear. Nothing but unfiltered, raw horror pumping through their veins.

Speak.

They try to form the word, forcing their jaw back up to shape the fricative, that hiss of the first letter.

But everything is frozen. They can’t move at all, like they’re ramming up against a barrier, over and over, not even making a dent.

If they don’t speak, the Baratie dies. But they can’t. Not even to save the life of the man who raised them. Zeff is going to die because Go is weak.

Their abdomen convulses as they try to jumpstart the word, but nothing comes out.

Speak. They need to speak. They just need to speak.

“Nevermind,” Judge’s voice slices through their blind panic. “Sedate and reset.”

And Go is dragged far, far under the surface.

Lucidity is touch and go for a long time. Go experiences brief moments of awareness before they’re drugged with some co*cktail and sink below the waves of dissociation. Sometimes they stay close enough to the surface to see colors, or hear words. Other times they’re plunged so deep they might as well be unconscious.

But every single time ends the same. Judge rips them out of that quiet, floating safety and demands they speak. Every time, Go fails.

Eventually, the tests stop for the day. Go manages to keep their thoughts straight for more than twenty minutes, and realizes they’re being kept overnight for observation. Of course.

They get maybe two hours of fitful sleep. True rest isn’t an option with the restraining belts biting their skin, and the horrible smells and sounds of a hospital constantly assaulting their senses. So they have plenty of time to stew.

The doctors tried at least seven different neurotoxins, in varying doses. From what Go can gather, the chemicals are designed to inhibit various areas of the brain with targeted precision, the goal being to find which clump of cells they need to lobotomize in order for Go to speak.

Nothing has worked so far. It seems that cutting off their emotion transmitters completely drives them to catatonia, but allowing access to enough emotion that they stay responsive renders them mute.

Go is really f*cking broken. Not like Sanji, who is just a normal person that Judge likes to berate. Go was a perfect super soldier who broke so hard they experienced emotions that their body wasn’t equipped to handle. So now they’re always either too overwhelmed to speak, or they just shut down completely. Utterly broken. And Go is terrified to imagine what Judge will do when he realizes they’re irreparable.

The next two days are full of more testing. They’re given longer breaks in between, and even freed for a decontamination shower at one point, but there’s always another drug co*cktail ready, or a night of fitful sleep, dissociation, and anxiety to look forward to.

They just hope that Sanji’s staying safe. Go never got a chance to piece together what kind of danger he’s in, and at this point there’s no way they’ll be able to tell him, stuck in this pharmaceutical hellscape.

On the third day, when the hundredth or so mixture enters their veins, it immediately feels different.

They feel that usual floatiness, yes, but not the distance or the sleepiness that lulls them beneath the surface. This sensation feels… good.

Go sits upright. Their heart rate is fast in their chest, but it feels like a dance. Comforting. And it settles into a soothing waltz.

A smile forms across their lips. They haven’t felt this calm in days. Certainly not this light.

“Can you open your mouth for me?” Someone asks.

Go finds they can. So they do. And the person - it’s a doctor, they note, a familiar one - makes a pleased hum. Go likes the noise. They make a pleased hum back.

“Princeps Go, can you speak?” He asks.

Go giggles. They haven’t giggled in… well, maybe ever. But it feels good. And they haven’t spoken in years either - but if they can giggle, they might as well try to speak.

“Sure,” they say. The word falls out of their mouth easily, and it surprises them, so they laugh. A joyful, unrestrained laugh.

“I can talk!” They say, cheeks pulled tight in a smile, “Ha! That’s great!”

The whole room erupts into movement and chatter. Go is surprised for a moment, but quickly delighted. They caused this! Many of them even seem happy. It feels good.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Asks the doctor.

“Three,” Go says, happy to be of service. Their throat hurts a bit from all this talking, but they can’t imagine wanting to stop.

“What about now?”

“Five!” Go replies. He changed the number of fingers. That’s fun.

“Go,” Says a deep voice over a crackling speaker.

Their heartbeat stutters for a moment, interrupting that soothing waltz. That voice is Judge, it’s a voice they fea- no, hate. They always tell themselves they hate it.

The smile twitches and droops, slightly. He hurt Sanji.

Oh, but the thought of Sanji makes their heart dance again. Go loves Sanji! He’s their brother and their other half. The grin returns.

“Go,” Says that voice again. “Speak.”

The grin falters. They don’t like Judge. They want to tell him-

“Piss off.”

Ah, that feels good. Go is beaming, now. They like doing things that make them feel good.

Judge’s voice doesn’t return, so that makes them feel extra good. They’re positively buzzing, now, answering questions for all the doctors and nurses. For every answer they get a hum, or a nod, or even a thank you, and it gives another surge of dopamine. A gift that keeps on giving.

Ah, definitely dopamine. Whatever drug they were given this time must be making their brain produce a ton of it. They feel so happy, there’s hardly room to feel anything else.

Go likes this much better than the other neurotoxins. They enjoy having emotions. This drug isn’t trying to suppress them, it’s giving them more. It’s wonderful.

The shadow of someone new approaching catches their attention. It’s Judge.

Go’s smile falls again.

Some other sensation is fighting for control over happiness. It’s probably because they hate Judge.

‘Go away,’ they try to sign, but their arms won’t move. Right. The restraints. They need to talk.

Go away, they want to say, but the words catch, suddenly.

Mute again.

They feel the pleasant hum of that chemical, reminding them to relax. They even put the smile back on. But there’s a persistent something, like a splinter in their thumb, that they can’t seem to let go of with Judge here.

“Increase the solution by 5%,” Judge says.

Go blinks. They weren’t expecting that. They stare curiously at Judge as a doctor switches the tube on their IV.

A fresh surge hits them. It’s amazing.

Judge did this? That doesn’t sound right. They hate Judge.

The bastard himself stares back at them, evenly.

“Speak.”

No. But it’s still stuck.

With a dopey smile, they shake their head instead.

“Another 5%,” Judge orders. And waits. No insults. No threats. No orders to sedate and reset.

Go must be the luckiest person on the planet. Judge is giving them more.

The new dose crawls up their veins and bursts like fireworks in their head. Go has never felt this good in their f*cking life.

“Speak to me, Go,” Judge says as they ride the sensation.

“Fuh-“ Fine, they want to say. But after that first syllable it all locks up. The barrier remains.

Oh well. They shrug haplessly at him. What are you gonna do? Everything still feels good, at least.

“10%.” Judge says. Go raises both eyebrows. This really can’t be the same man. He would call it off by now. Or at least threaten the Baratie.

Oh, the Baratie. With Zeff, and Sanji, and the flock, and sometimes Kennedy. Go sighs contentedly. They love everyone so much. Their heart feels warm.

“Sir-” a doctor tries to argue.

“They can handle it. Increase the dose,” Judge orders.

Someone brings a new bag. Go watches, fascinated and bemused. Their eyes dart to Judge. They should be… wary of him, right? Go knows, for a fact, that they hate him. To their very core. But that hatred seems so far away. Just out of reach underneath how wonderful they feel.

Judge’s gaze does not waver.

An overwhelming wave of unmitigated, euphoric pleasure crashes over their entire body. Go’s eyes roll back, and they might even moan. They’re not paying attention. It feels better than any org*sm they’ve ever had. Better than the first breath after suffocating. Better than the first bite after starvation. Go has long passed cloud nine, they’re in a different state of matter entirely.

When they regain some semblance of control over their body, they hear Judge’s voice.

“Speak, Go.”

“f*ck,” they heave a breath like they’ve just run a marathon, “that’s f*cking amazing.”

Judge grins down at them. Elated, Go smiles back.

Chapter 21: Willing Patriot

Chapter Text

The doctors ask more questions, and do a ton more tests, which Go is happy to help with. They’re on a steady stream of neurotoxin 6G-09 the whole time. Not as strong as the initial experiment, but enough to enjoy themselves the whole time.

They know, objectively, that they have a phobia of hospitals, but it doesn’t bother them at all. And it’s all because of the drug. They know that, but they can’t bring themselves to be upset about it. Go isn’t perpetually miserable anymore. That’s something to savor.

They go unconscious, at one point, and when they wake up, there’s a small circular port at the base of their skull. The doctors explain that this will automatically dispense 6G-09 for them when they need it, as long as they come in for refills every morning.

As an amateur psychology nerd, Go finds this fascinating. They try to ask the doctors questions about how the dispense mechanism is triggered, whether it’s a fixed or dynamic cycle, what brain chemicals they’re monitoring, and a few other burning questions. But Judge sternly steers them away from the topic.

They really want to know, and start to feel a little irritated, but before they can press, the mechanism Clicks and their whole body melts, soothed.

Maybe Judge is right. It can’t be that important.

Once they’re discharged, Judge assigns a servant to them as a handmaiden for the day, and gives Go a list of tasks to finish by dinner.

“Consider this a test,” He tells them, “To determine if I can trust you off leash.”

f*cking asshole-

Click.

sh*t, that drug feels so goddamn good, and they have nothing better to do. In a daze, they agree.

The first item on the list is “Groom Properly.”

Ah, yes. Their stubble has grown out quite a bit since their one shower at the hospital two days ago. Plus, their head was shaved on the sides and at the nape, to accommodate the dispenser port. They need a clean up, or someone will do it by force.

“Could you take me to a barber?” Go asks the woman assigned to them. They look up from the list and break into a huge smile when they realize they recognize her. “Wait, you’re the person who salvaged my clothes! You’re amazing! I’ve been wanting to thank you since then. And ask for your name.”

The woman is staring at them like she’s seen a ghost. Go tilts their head.

“I-It’s Anette, my princeps,” She bows. Her voice is strangely clipped. “I will take you where you desire. Please follow me.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you properly,” They reply easily, “Lead the way.”

The tension in Anette’s shoulders is odd, but Go is in a chipper mood, so they just grin easily and try to catch her eye as they walk. Maybe they can put her at ease.

Alas, this only seems to stress her out more. They decide not to bother her, then, and instead enjoy the lovely weather outside.

The barber cleans them up well. He turns the haphazard medical shaves into a tasteful undercut, then shaves their face, and even provides them with a special Germa-formula cream that mitigates hair growth for them to put on their face regularly. Go feels a distant pang at the thought of their beard never growing back.

Click. A blanket of pleasantness falls over them. Go takes the cream and thanks the man. Even if they never use it, it’s a kind gesture. No need to get upset over it.

Next on the list is “See the Royal Tailor.” Anette leads the way. They stand dutifully as the tailor takes measurements.

“What’s this for?” They ask him.

“Your royal cape, as well as your ceremony dress, my princeps,” The tailor responds, gently lifting their arm.

Oh, sh*t! That tea party Judge mentioned. They wanted more information about that. This is a perfect opportunity!

“Tell me more about the ceremony,” Go says.

The tailor shares a weighted look with Anette.

“I apologize, my princeps,” Anette chimes in, “The Generalissimo has requested we not share details with you.”

Go can’t help the slight sting of disappointment. They were hoping-

Click. A rush of dopamine.

There’s no reason to cause a fuss. These people have been so kind. Besides, Go feels great right now. And the practiced hands measuring them invoke pleasant memories.

“My girlfriend is a tailor, too, you know,” They say, sighing like a lovesick fool. The fondness in their heart is amplified a million times over by the chemical high. “Right now, she has to work at a shop, but she’ll own her own place one day. Kennedy’s amazing.”

Go stares dreamily at the ceiling, remembering her beautiful smile, when they realize no one’s responding. They look down to find the tailor’s brow furrowed, sharing a distressed look with Anette.

“It’s okay,” Go reassures them both with a smile, “She mostly likes her work at the shop. And she gets paid well enough now that her own business is only a few years away!”

For some reason, their tension doesn’t ease.

“Princeps Go, what is the next item on the list?” Anette asks, suddenly changing the subject.

“Hm? Oh, sure.” They pull it out and take a look, as the tailor hurriedly finishes and leaves the room.

The final item on the list is “Raid Suit Training.”

They know this one! They were still in development when Go was locked away, but it makes sense that they’re now a staple of Germa 66’s combat capabilities. For the royal family, each suit is designed to grant unique powers beyond even their innate superhuman abilities.

Anette leads them to the military labs. Go basks in the buzz of dopamine and endorphins the whole way. They feel so good all the damn time now. How the hell did they manage to get out of bed, without this? They hate Germa. It’s a miracle they had the willpower to wake up in the mornings.

The lab technician, a burly man named Salvador, greets Go enthusiastically. Go matches his energy.

“Are you ready to fight with the most cutting-edge and powerful technology in the entire world?” He asks excitedly.

“f*ck yeah!” Go replies, hardly paying attention to the words. They like this guy. He doesn’t even use the titles that annoy them so much.

“Then you’re ready for this!” Salvador exclaims, popping open a metal briefcase with a hiss. He pulls out a purple canister with a white “5” printed on it.

“This,” He presents it with a flourish, “Is your raid suit, Pitch Purple.”

Go takes it, grinning. They’re honestly not that interested in the suit itself any more than they were the grooming or the fitting. But the happiness coming off Salvador is contagious. All positivity is, with the 6G-09 in their system.

“Go ahead,” He winks, and Go realizes that’s a pun. They laugh.

They mime his motions, holding the can in front of them and letting it spin, until it explodes in a burst of light and they feel something mold to their body.

When Go opens their eyes, they’re in a skin-tight purple dress so short it barely covers their ass. The neckline cuts so low that it bisects their cleavage and exposes their belly-button. Each section of fabric that does cover their boobs is decorated with a big white number 6, so that the loops frame their goddamn nipples. A blue bandana ties around their neck as a scarf. The white cape on their back is cut to resemble a pair of bird wings, including some wire scaffolding for structure. They’re wearing those dumb ball shoes, too, with thigh-high bright yellow socks and black garters that attach to their underwear. The white gauntlet on their left hand is a tad bigger than the purple one on the right, tipped with sharp talons on each finger and a giant purple number 5 on the brace.

It’s objectifying, gaudy, overly effeminate, and generally demeaning. Go feels more naked than if they were just f*cking nude.

Click.

They exhale slowly, centering themselves, and letting go of the disgust to soak up the surge of dopamine. Even if the suit isn’t their taste, it doesn’t matter. They still feel good.

“You look great!” Salvador booms, grinning. Go remembers that they liked this guy, and they smile back. Whatever they were upset about is already forgotten. “Pitch Purple has a few unique abilities. I’ll show you how to use them.”

Go spends a few hours with Salvador, getting the hang of their new special attacks, incorporating them into their fighting style. Though, they aren’t really sure why they would need the raid suit. Go isn’t a waiter at the moment, and… probably won’t be for the foreseeable future…

Click.

But training is fun! The reason doesn’t matter. Judge told them to do it, and they can’t argue.

Eventually, Anette nervously interrupts so that they have time to wash up for dinner. Go thanks Salvador with a hearty pat on the back, heads back to their room for a refreshing shower, and comes down for dinner with a levity in their step.

All of their siblings are still away on missions, so dinner will just be Go and Judge. They enter the dining hall, and see him sitting at the head of the table, watching them. The sight of that bastard sparks a dangerous feeling in their chest. Hatred, of course. Maybe even fe-

Click.

Everything is instantly better. They just needed to feel good.

Humming softly, they pad over to the table and take their usual seat, unfolding the napkin into their lap.

“Go,” Judge says.

Click.

Go smiles dazedly at him. “Yes?”

“Did you complete the errands?”

“Mmm. Yep.”

Judge narrows his eyes.

“Any complications?”

Go blinks a few times, wracking their brain for anything, just to be thorough. Nothing comes to mind.

“Guess not,” they say with a shrug. A fresh smile plays at their lips. It was a good day. They feel so good.

“Hm,” Judge hums, giving them a once-over. “Adequate.”

They can’t help the little snicker that escapes them. Judge just praised them. Judge Vinsmoke praised Go. Judge, who they hate, and who hates them, just gave them a compliment. That’s hilarious!

“What was that?” Judge asks testily.

Click.

Oh, that feels great. Go giggles.

“Stop that. Answer me.”

Click.

Go snorts, the laughter tumbling out uncontrollably now. They’re floating. They’re cackling. The air is champagne. Or what they imagine champagne to be, if they could get drunk.

“Answer me, or I kill someone on the Baratie.”

Click Click Click.

Terror spikes, quickly overwhelmed by mind-numbing euphoria to rival that highly concentrated dose in the lab. Go’s eyes flutter back into their head and their body slumps to the floor in a heap, twitching from overstimulation. It’s too much, but by god does it feel fantastic.

Eventually, the ecstasy dulls, and they gulp in a lungful of air. Drying tears feel tacky on their face, and they quickly wipe them clean, then climb back into their seat.

“Holy sh*t,” Go chuckles to themselves as they pick up a fork, “Feeling giddy today.”

Judge is openly staring at them, stunned. Go snorts at the sight.

“Judge Vinsmoke paid me a compliment,” They muse, “I’ll find the goddamn One Piece under my pillow, next.”

The following days blur together in a rhapsodic haze. Go is happy. That’s all there is to it.

Judge is busy, but he has dinner with them every night. He doesn’t threaten or compliment them again, so there isn’t another episode or anything.

One night, after they clean their plate and prepare to excuse themselves, Judge clears his throat.

“I have a matter to discuss with you,” he says.

“‘Kay.”

Judge’s lip curls in distaste at their casual tone, but he continues on.

“We are approaching our destination. Your behavior is just barely suitable for public appearance, but this is an important business venture, so it will have to do.”

Go beams. They love when Judge finds them frustrating, just like they love just about everything else these days.

“Germa is entering an alliance with the Big Mom pirates. You will make appearances alongside your siblings. You will do exactly as ordered, you will behave perfectly, and you will speak only when spoken to by me or a ranking member of her retinue. Understood?”

So that’s his game. An alliance. He wants to parade them around like a piece of meat. That simpering son of a-

Click.

“Sure,” They agree dreamily. “f*ckin’ easy.”

Judge narrows his eyes, but seems to accept it.

“Obviously, we can’t let the wider world know you’re an abomination, but I don’t have the time to properly fix you before the tea party-” Click. “-so we will present you like this, avoid any indication of your hermaphroditic nature, and let everyone assume.” Click Click Click.

Go shudders. There’s so much irony there, in Judge letting the world assume, the same way they survived in spite of him for so many years. But that self-awareness is lost under an avalanche of dopamine. The drug is flooding their brain right now, and they can hardly think. They barely curb their reaction into a pleased grunt instead of letting out a full moan.

“Let the bastards assume,” they manage. “Feels g- sounds good.”

“Right.” Judge looks unimpressed. Go smiles pleasantly at him.

“The conditions of our alliance,” he continues, “require that a member of the royal family marries one of Big Mom’s children.”

Go smirks. It’s definitely not them, considering their remaining defect and the fact that they only recently fell into Judge’s lap. Which means one of their sh*thead siblings is about to tie the knot.

“Who’s the unlucky bastard?”

“Sanji.”

Go’s smirk wipes away like chalk. Sanji. They… they forgot he was involved in this. sh*t, they haven’t worried about him in days. What the f*ck have they been doing? The whole point was to get information to help him-

Click Click Click Click.

Their eyes roll back in their head, a positively sinful noise escaping their mouth. Their hands grip the armrests of the chair and the wood cracks, but Go is too busy trying to stay upright to care.

“Sanji,” they murmur, head in the clouds, “Yeah, he’s a real romantic… love Sanji…”

Judge doesn’t look happy, but when has he ever? They ignore it.

“He’s arriving tomorrow. Reiju and Yonji as well. Prove that you can conduct yourself in front of them, and I won’t lock you away for the rest of our time in Tottoland.”

Click.

“Mmmhm,” they agree, distantly. They’re so floaty that it’s getting harder to follow the conversation.

Judge sighs irritably.

“That is all. You’re dismissed.”

In a comfortable daze, Go stands and returns to their quarters. Once they’ve dressed down for the night, they let their mind wander back to the conversation, the bits they remember.

Sanji. They’re going to see Sanji tomorrow.

The thought brings a massive smile to their face. They’ve missed Sanji so dearly. It’s been nearly three years without their other half, and he’s going to be here tomorrow.

Go can’t wait to finally sit and talk with him. Hear about his adventures. Oh! And see his new look! He hasn’t gotten a new poster yet, that they’ve seen. They’re willing to bet he looks amazing, and that Kennedy will be proud.

In the massive bed - they started sleeping in it properly, since they’re not scared anymore and their brothers aren’t even here - Go snuggles into the covers and lets unconsciousness slowly seep over them. Sanji is coming, they’ll be together, and Go is so very happy.

Chapter 22: Sanji's Arrival

Chapter Text

Reiju and Yonji arrive first, early. Go enters the dining room for breakfast and is surprised to see them at the table, reporting to Judge over mediocre eggs benedict with gold flakes on top.

When Go enters, all heads turn to them. Reiju’s face is perfectly neutral, while Yonji has a sad*stic glint in his eye.

Click.

Go smiles.

“Reiju. Dickwad.” They nod in greeting to each of their siblings.

Yonji’s eyes widen in surprise at their voice for a moment, before he processes the insult and leaps to his feet. Go, still enjoying the rush of chemicals, finds this amusing.

“Leave it,” Judge orders, and Yonji turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “Not worth the trouble.”

Yonji frowns but sits back down, glaring venomously at them.

Go shoots him a chipper smile, taking their own seat.

“As you can see, the fix is crude, but it’s as much as we had time to implement,” Judge says. “They’re docile and capable of speech, if necessary, which is all we really need to posture.”

Maybe they should be offended at being called docile. But they’re in a good mood, so they let the slight roll off them.

“Holy sh*t, they’re on dope,” Yonji says, like he’s just now realizing it. “No way.”

Indignance and shame creep up on them, only to be immediately silenced with a Click.

“Jealous?” Go asks, maybe a little slurred. “I feel f*cking great, all the time.”

“Ha! Yeah, I bet you do,” He replies, grinning like a predator. Go smiles back, slightly manic.

“Don’t encourage them,” Judge growls. “Reiju will be in charge of keeping them in line while we’re in the public eye. It’ll help with the illusion that they’re also a princess.”

Go smirks. That’s funny. They’re hardly even a princeps.

“I won’t disappoint, Father,” Reiju says primly.

“Speaking of disappointments,” Yonji says, reclining in his chair. “When’s the groom arrive?”

Judge glances at his pocket watch, idly.

“Within the hour, actually.”

Go takes a moment to process what they’re talking about. Sanji. Sanji is coming!

They shovel down breakfast with gusto. Go hates eggs, but they won’t waste food, and hatred hasn’t exactly been an obstacle recently anyway.

Go buzzes with anticipation, standing between Yonji and Reiju at the right hand of Judge’s throne.

The double doors open. Surrounded by an entourage of guards and a few retainers that Go doesn’t recognize, is their brother. The one they actually love. Sanji.

He’s different than the last time they saw him, of course. Go is glad to see three years has aged him kindly; more mature and comfortable in his skin. More prominent muscle, too. His hair is longer, down to his shoulder blades, partially pulled back into a beautiful waterfall braid, though his bangs still fall over his eye. The style looks so much like Sora they might as well be looking at a ghost. Still no mustache, thankfully, but his small beard has gotten fuller.

His outfit is… rather plain, even compared to his tastes before he left. Certainly not what they expected based on the letters. It’s a simple white peasant blouse and black slacks with dress shoes. There is, at the very least, a frilly sky blue bra just visible through the light of his shirt, matching a lace choker around his neck.

Beside them, Yonji snickers. “fa*ggot,” he whispers.

Go’s blood boils with rage.

Click.

A fresh pleasantness soothes it. Sanji looks good, and that’s all that matters. In fact, they really want to give him a hug. So they step forward, only to be grabbed by Reiju.

“Don’t,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth.

Sanji’s eyes travel around the room grimly, until they finally meet Go’s, and his entire body goes rigid.

“Go?” He asks, still in the doorway.

They’re vibrating with joy and beaming so hard their cheeks hurt.

‘Missed you, dumbass,’ They sign warmly. Their hands move out of habit, seeing his face.

Sanji does not smile back. In fact, he looks downright horrified. He takes a wary half-step backward.

Go’s smile doesn’t waver, but their eyebrows do knit in confusion. They haven’t been together in years. Isn’t he glad to see them?

Judge clears his throat. Reiju immediately grabs Go’s wrists and holds them behind their back.

“No signing,” she whispers shortly.

But they always sign with Sanji. They miss signing. They miss-

Click.

No, it’s fine. They can talk now, instead. Go takes a deep breath and lets the smile return.

“Welcome home, Prince Sanji,” Judge is saying, as the retinue shoves Sanji forward. Go should pay attention.

“What the f*ck did you do to them?” Sanji growls, blatantly hostile.

Something in Go twinges. Sanji is upset. That- they can’t let that happen.

Click.

“Your brothers found her working in a restaurant, of all places. Hardly befitting of royalty. But I think you’ll find she’s quite happy here.”

They try to get their bearings. Judge is talking about Go. That’s part of the ruse. Make Big Mom’s crew think they’re a woman. Let people assume.

“She?” Sanji shouts, enraged. “What the hell did you do, you piece of sh*t? I’ll kick your f*cking head off-”

sh*t. sh*t. Sanji’s yelling at Judge. He’s going to fight. Judge will beat him bloody, or lock him away again, or-

Click Click Click Click Click.

Go blacks out from the sheer force of the high. When their eyes flutter open, they’re being held up solely by Reiju’s iron grip on their wrists, knees trembling. They can feel a little drool drying on their face.

“Go? Oi, GO!” Sanji is shouting. He’s being restrained by Yonji, having clearly made a break towards them.

A giggle punches out of their chest, sudden and loud.

“I feel great, Sanji!” They say between laughs, “Don’t worry, I feel amazing!”

Sanji’s struggling falters.

“You-? Go, what the f*ck is going on?” He asks, desperate and furious. “Is the Baratie-?”

“The Baratie,” Judge cuts in, “is still floating. And will continue to do so, as long you and Go behave yourselves. Wouldn’t want Big Mom to pay the establishment a visit, would we?”

Click.

Good. Feels good. They hum pleasantly in agreement.

“You’re sick,” Sanji spits at Judge. “I’ll attend her sh*tty tea party, but I won’t be getting f*cking married. And when I leave to rejoin my crew, I’m taking Go with me.”

Oh, that sounds nice. Go loves Sanji. And it’ll be fun to meet his crew.

“That’s fine. I’ll just have our agents in East Blue kill that chef in the big hat. Red Leg Zeff, was it?”

Click Click Click.

Combined with the earlier mega-dose, the pleasure is so intense that their soul is shunted right out of their body and into a new dimension. Go has never felt this much at once before. It’s starting to hurt, actually; a sharp, constricting headache and a dull throbbing in the back of their head. But the euphoria is so perfect that they sort of like the edge of pain. A new, complimentary sensation to act as a grounding thread while they float.

Back in their body, Reiju still holds them upright by the wrists. This time, there’s both drool and tears drying on their face. Sanji is staring at them with unmitigated horror.

“Feels good,” Go giggles. “Don’t worry, I like it.”

Sanji recoils like he’s been burned.

“We have no further business to discuss,” Judge says, with authority. “Reiju, you and Go can show Sanji to his room.”

Sanji stomps on Yonji’s foot, and is released with a scoff and a glare that promises violence later. Reiju guides the both of them out one of the side doors with grace, still pinching Go’s wrists together. Sanji is fuming, but Go hardly notices, grinning openly at him the entire way.

The moment they’re out in the hallway, Sanji rounds on both his siblings.

“What the f*ck is going on?” He demands.

“Not here,” Reiju says brusquely, releasing Go and turning away. “Follow me.”

“Sure,” Go agrees.

Sanji scowls, but falls into step behind her with Go.

“Did they hurt you?” Sanji asks them lowly.

“Oh, yeah,” Go says cheerily, “A lot. I was f*cking miserable for a while. But I’m happy now.”

“What the hell-“

“Not here,” Reiju cuts him off sharply.

Sanji doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Go wants to comfort him, so they reach down and grab his hand in theirs while they walk. It’s just like when they were children working on the Orbit, Go insisting they hold hands so they could keep track of him in port towns.

Sanji gives them a weird look but doesn’t pull away, to which they let out a pleased hum and squeeze his hand in reassurance. He’s probably just confused. Go will explain as soon as Reiju lets them.

Eventually, Reiju opens one of the hundreds of doors in the castle and ushers them inside. Sanji opens his mouth to speak, but Reiju quickly puts a finger to her lips, shushing him.

She walks over to the bed and crouches, reaching a hand underneath and feeling around for something. Evidently, she finds it, because there’s a faint chik that Go recognizes as the listening device she briefly turned off in their own bedroom. She then does the same with his vanity and a mechanism behind the massive looming portrait of Judge. Fitting.

After one last lap of the room to double-check, she announces: “Clean.”

Sanji immediately grabs Go by the shoulders, staring intently into their eyes.

“What. Happened,” He grits out.

Click.

Go laughs.

“I got kidnapped! Our brothers probably killed half the waitstaff, then dragged me here. If I escape, they’ll kill everyone else!” Click. “Then Judge needed me to talk so he pumped me full of chemicals and now I feel f*cking great!” They grin.

Sanji does not grin back. In fact, he looks ill. He shoots a questioning glance at Reiju.

“Father installed a mechanism in their skull to dispense a neurotoxin that overrides their psychosomatic mutism.”

“I’m always high!” Go laughs, “I feel so f*cking good, Sanji, you have no idea!”

“Can we get it out?” Sanji asks Reiju grimly, ignoring them.

“Is my voice that annoying?” Go jokes.

Sanji turns back to them, bewildered.

“You’re being f*cking drugged, Go!”

Click.

“Mm. Well, yeah, but it’s still me. And this place sucks so bad without it, Sanji. I might kill myself.”

The words just sort of tumble out, but as soon as it’s out there, Go knows it’s true. They can never leave, not while the Baratie is hostage. The only reason they were hanging on this long was to help Sanji. And now he’s here. Even if they can help Sanji escape, someone has to stay behind so that Germa has a reason to keep Zeff alive.

Sanji slaps them across the face.

“Never. Ever say that sh*t.” His grip on their shoulders is bruising. “You get one pass because you’re high out of your mind, but if you even f*cking consider that again, I’ll kick your ass into a purée. And then I’ll do it a second time on behalf of Kennedy-chan. You got it?”

Dumb with shock, Go nods. Sanji never hits people with his hands.

‘Sorry,’ they sign, dazed.

Guilt starts to creep in. They promised Zeff, too, that they wouldn’t throw their life away again. What the f*ck were they thinking?

Click.

The rush of dopamine soothes them. And they close their eyes to savor it instead of dwelling on the shame.

“You’d f*cking better be,” Sanji threatens. Then he turns back to Reiju. “So. Getting it out.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs impotently, “I only found out an hour before you arrived.”

“Your whole thing is poison!” Sanji argues.

“I could remove the neurotoxin in their body, but that device is constantly injecting more. I’m not a surgeon, Sanji.”

“Probably not easy to remove even if she was,” Go chimes in helpfully. “It took a five-hour operation to install, and it’s big enough that I really only need refills every three days. They have me come in every morning to top off anyway, though.”

Sanji and Reiju both stare at them.

“Why would they tell you that?” Reiju asks.

“Oh they didn’t!” Go informs her happily, “I figured it out based on answers to the other questions I can get away with.”

Mostly, the questions were pure academic curiosity. But it was simple to deduce with all the pieces.

Sanji smirks. “Good to know you’re still a clever bastard.”

“Always.”

But suddenly his face falls, grave once again.

“Judge called you…” he trails off. “Did he mutilate you?”

Click.

“Mm. No time. Took my eggs for clones, though.”

Both Sanji and Reiju are staring again.

“…What?” Sanji asks.

Click.

“Yeahhh,” Go sighs, dreamily, “Had the doctors extract them and sent them to ‘Cloning Lab Two, to see what grows.’” They do an unflattering impression of Judge. “And now I’m on hormone shots to produce more. Like livestock!”

There’s a pause.

“Go… what the f*ck?”

Click.

Go laughs. “It was traumatizing!” They inform him. “Realized I have PTSD, actually.”

“Okay. That sucks, and we should unpack that later. But right now I’m more concerned about the fact that Judge has a cloning lab.”

“Multiple,” Reiju corrects. “He’s had them since we were children, actually. But I hadn’t considered he would want to clone Go. It’s obvious, in hindsight.”

“What, a thousand clones of the perfect children isn’t enough?” Sanji asks bitterly.

“No,” Reiju says patiently. “Cloning us is useless. True genetically identical cloning requires unfertilized eggs, which rules out our brothers. And I am… not a suitable candidate. My own genetic enhancements were only a prototype, anyway.”

Go blinks. “You’re infertile,” they blurt out, putting the pieces together. It makes sense; Judge would’ve had to positively fry her DNA to turn a non-engineered child into a supersoldier of her caliber.

“Don’t just say sensitive sh*t out loud!” Sanji scolds, kicking them.

“No, they’re correct,” Reiju sighs. “But more importantly, Go is valuable to Judge beyond posturing for Big Mom. Which means, at the very least, he is unlikely to kill them to keep you in line after the wedding. Until he successfully produces a fertile clone, I suppose.”

Click.

It’s okay, they soothe themselves. Being useful is a good thing.

“Shut up. Go isn’t a f*cking bargaining chip.”

“They are, whether you like it or not,” Reiju replies. “You’ve been gone for a while, but Judge hasn’t changed. We are all only worth our use.”

Sanji softens, at that.

“Reiju-” he starts, voice sympathetic.

“Is there anything else private you wish to discuss with them before I turn the surveillance back on?” She asks curtly.

Sanji sighs. “If I think of something, we can use sign. It’s easier and less… uncanny.”

He gives Go a side-eye. They smile back.

“Just do it out of sight,” Reiju reminds them. “As their handler, I will also be punished if they’re seen.”

Click.

‘Judge can suck me off!’ They sign cheerily.

Sanji snorts. “The smiling is still creepy as hell, but it’s such a f*cking relief that your sign voice is the same.”

‘We’ve been talking about depressing sh*t for ages. Can I have a goddamn hug, now?’

Sanji immediately pulls them into an embrace. God, it’s been so long. He’s taller, and a lot denser. Holy hell he’s put on a ton of muscle. He doesn’t even fight with his arms and they’re decently jacked. He smells different too - less table salt, more sea salt.

But he still hugs the same. Still buries his face into their shoulder. Still squeezes back when they squeeze him tight.

“I really f*cking missed you,” he mumbles, voice breaking. “This whole situation is miserable, but f*ck am I glad to see you.”

Tears well in Go’s eyes. A bittersweet emotion tightens the back of their throat, until-

Click.

Their squeeze goes lax and they slump into him.

“Mmm, glad to see you too,” they agree dreamily. “Feels good.”

Sanji pulls away, and they whine a little in protest, but they’re too loopy to stop him.

“Drugs?” He asks grimly.

They nod, humming.

“Hey,” he says, getting their attention. Then signs, ‘Want me to tell you about my adventures?’

‘YES!’ They sign back instantly. ‘I can catch you in your lie about the skeleton.’

They spend hours listening to Sanji recap his adventures with the Straw Hats. They’re pleased to see his signing hasn’t gotten rusty over the years.

‘Robin-chan knows Western dialect sign,’ he informs them, ‘and she asked me to teach her East dialect. Of course, any opportunity to spend time with the beautiful Robin-chan is a blessing, so we converse often.’

It’s amusing to watch Sanji’s signing become extremely articulate when talking about her. It’s even more amusing to watch how it devolves into particularly sloppy motions when he talks about the swordsman, whose sign name is literally—

‘—the sh*tty Marimo! I even had to wear a f*cking helmet. But Nami-san said it looked good on me so I suppose it wasn’t too bad.’

He’s describing a goddamn Davy Back Fight, which Go previously assumed was an exaggerated tale when the two of them heard about it from the ex-pirate chefs. Turns out it’s legit, and it’s somehow the tamest adventure Sanji’s crew has had by far. That is, until a Navy Admiral shows up. Go has a f*cking heart attack before the drugs assuage them.

When he gets to the whole Enies Lobby incident, Go feels like they panicked too soon, before. Because apparently Sanji got beat within an inch of his life on a train and then fought the boogiemen of the world government with those injuries.

‘Sanji, never do that again,’ they sign, riding a fresh high from the neurotoxin dispenser working overtime to calm them down.

‘For Robin-chan, I would do it a million times over.’ He sighs dreamily. ‘Also, it gets worse.’

Boy, does it.

While fighting their second and third warlords (fourth, technically, if you include Mihawk), the “sh*tty Marimo” is mortally wounded, and just barely survives. Sanji is very opaque on the details, which is strange because he’s done nothing but brag about the crew’s heroics so far - including Roronoa’s, to some extent. Go has a sneaking suspicion that it involves Sanji doing something he doesn’t want them to know about. That maybe Roronoa took the hit for him.

This isn’t the “worse” part, though. This is just context to explain why, when they saw that warlord again, none of them even stood a chance.

Roronoa, still injured, was the first to fall. Sanji still looks haunted as he describes it, his second family being ripped away one by one and then grimly expecting death himself, only to be flying through the air at impossible speed.

Go holds onto his ankle for the rest of his story, after that. They’re sitting across from each other on the bed, legs all tangled up in the middle, and Go can’t hold his hands while he’s signing, so they grab what they can and hold on for dear life.

The next part is familiar, but with added context that honestly only makes it more confusing. Sanji literally crash-landed on Momoiro Island, because apparently the reigning Queen is a ranked member of the revolutionary army, who Kuma used to work with before he was coerced or maybe brainwashed into becoming a cyborg war machine clone(?) army.

Basically, he actually sent everyone to safe places that he thought they would enjoy based on the little he knew of their personalities, or something.

‘Hold on,’ Go interrupts at this point, ‘are you telling me that you ended up on that island for two years because even that f*cking warlord could tell you were repressed?’

‘I wasn’t repressed!’ Sanji argues.

Go gives him the flattest look known to man.

‘And definitely not visibly!’

‘So then you told him about your toxic relationship with femininity, or-?’

He kicks them in the nose.

‘This better be where you tell me you’re part of the family, or that’s a hate crime.’

Sanji freezes.

“…Sanji,” They say sweetly, speaking out loud for the first time in the conversation for emphasis.

‘It’s complicated-‘ He defends himself.

‘What’s complicated about get your sh*t together?’ Go asks.

‘I did!’ Sanji signs with fervor, ‘I unpacked the gender sh*t! It just turns out there was a lot of sh*t!’

‘Yeah, no sh*t.’

He kicks them again.

‘Look.’ He sighs, fisting his hands into his hair for a moment before continuing. ‘Trying to put a name on it freaks me out. Being a woman - or just okama - that’s too much, even if part of me wants to. It’s paralyzing. So I’ve started by just… wearing whatever I want. No putting a gender on any of it. On some days I can even wear a full face of makeup and a dress, as long as I don’t think about it as women’s stuff. I guess.’

Go nods, slowly at first, then more firmly as they process that.

‘Like my voice,’ they realize.

‘What?’ Sanji asks, bewildered.

‘Without the drugs,’ Go clarifies, ‘Even though I wanted to talk, there was always a wall. The only time I ever overcame it was when I was so out of it I spoke without thinking.’

“Wait, what?” Sanji blurts out loud. “When the hell was this?”

Go coughs, embarrassed. ‘Uh. When I got shot. Woke up while Hawk Eyes was fighting sh*tty Marimo, I think.’

Sanji blinks.

‘Funny coincidence. You’ll never guess where that dumbass spent his two years.’

It’s definitely a cop out on Sanji’s part, using the serendipity as a chance to avoid the gender talk. But Go is too damn high to call him on it. Besides, they’re grateful for any chance to hear so much about his life these past few years.

Chapter 23: Familial Dispute

Chapter Text

Of course, all good things must come to an end, particularly in this sh*tty castle. Reiju returns to collect them for lunch at the worst possible time.

Sanji is just starting to detail his soul(?) being transplanted into Nami’s body, by describing what Go can only call textbook gender euphoria. Literally. They have read a psychology textbook that lists the exact feelings he describes.

But they don’t get a chance to help him come to a major breakthrough, because the Vinsmokes ruin f*cking everything.

Click.

Well, it’s fine, they can always circle back.

When they get to the dining room, there’s a surprising lack of Judge; his place isn’t even set. It’s very common that he’s too busy to take a formal lunch, but it’s weird because normally Go isn’t forced to attend without him.

“Why did you drag us here if the bastard isn’t coming?” They ask Reiju.

Yonji, sitting at the table, makes a displeased noise.

“I said to bring Sanji. Why’s the freak here too?”

“That’s what I was going to ask,” Go says, grinning at him pointedly.

“Tch,” Yonji scoffs, but doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I invited both our siblings,” Reiju says testily, “because I’m not rude.”

With that, she stalks over to the table to take her seat.

“And why the hell do you want to see me?” Sanji crosses his arms. “If you want a fight, find me yourself.”

Yonji rolls his eyes.

“You’re being difficult for no reason. Just sit down and eat lunch. Damn.”

Sanji and Go share a skeptical look.

Click. Go melts.

“f*ck it, food’s already on the plate.”

They take their designated seat between Yonji and Reiju. Sanji, meanwhile, reluctantly slides into the seat on Reiju’s other side. Notably, the chair labeled “1” and not the “3” next to Yonji.

When Go said that there was already food on the plate, they did actually mean plate, singular. Sanji’s place is the only other one set, presumably because Yonji didn’t think Go and Reiju would be here. But Sanji’s pointedly not sitting there, so he reaches over and pulls the plate to his own setting. What a power move.

Go doesn’t need the drugs to find this hilarious.

“I don’t know why you’re being so obtuse about this wedding,” Yonji says, jabbing his fork at him. “This is, like, the best possible outcome for you. You get the title, the wealth, and a hot piece of ass, plus you don’t have to do anything for the rest of your life. Hell, you’d even be useful, for once, just by being a trophy husband.”

“That’s why you wanted to talk to me?” Sanji asks with disgust. “And don’t talk about Pudding-chan like that!”

Go assumes “Pudding” is the bride-to-be and aforementioned “hot piece of ass.” They’re mildly surprised anyone bothered to give Sanji the name of his fiancé, considering Go didn’t even know there was a wedding happening until last night.

“Yeah,” Yonji says, ignoring the chivalrous comment, “Trying to get you to see it our way. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Mutually-? You bastards are holding people hostage! You kidnapped Go! Why the f*ck would I stick around?”

“Well, the hostages, for one.”

Click. Go snorts.

Sanji looks absolutely murderous.

“No, seriously,” Yonji says, “That sh*t’s just to get you here. If you don’t weasel out of the marriage, the collateral is a non-issue. So why not enjoy yourself?”

Sanji scowls.

“Because I have a goddamn life, and a crew that’s waiting for me. And because you’re drugging my f*cking sibling.”

Yonji rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to be a pirate if you’re a prince again. And who cares about Go? They’re happy here anyway. Isn’t that right, princess?” He pats them on the back.

Click.

“Mmm, you’re an asshole,” Go says, in a pleased tone that unfortunately sounds like agreement.

“Watch it,” Sanji growls.

“Is it because you’re a fa*g?” Yonji asks, conversationally, “Because kids aren’t part of the terms. You could probably just get a f*ckboy on the side and smack her around if she compl-”

Sanji straight-up teleports across the table and roundhouse kicks Yonji in the face. There’s a metallic crunch as the dress shoe connects with his skull, and his head caves in, before the force sends him tumbling from his chair, across the room, and slamming heavily into the wall. There’s a f*cking impact crater.

Reiju smirks around the lip of her glass.

“I told you not to be rude,” she says.

Go’s eyes are wide. Sanji is a strong fighter - Zeff trained him well - but the raw speed and power required to launch their brother like that… Yonji is built like a literal tank; his skeletal structure is reinforced with metal plates in addition to the exoskeleton. There’s no f*cking way any normal human should be able to do that.

Sanji doesn’t even look particularly exerted. He just scowls and pulls out a cigarette as he walks over to their brother’s crumpled body.

“Never. Ever. Suggest hitting a woman,” He says lowly, pulling out a lighter. It flicks on, flame licking the end of his cigarette.

Yonji groans and sits up, fuming. The entire left side of his face is crumpled in on itself like a ball of tin foil.

“What the f*ck? We were having a conversation!”

“I’m done talking to you,” Sanji says. “Either apologize or get the hell out of my sight.”

“You f*cking failure,” Yonji spits, “I was trying to help you. Make you see it our way. Nevermind. I hope this arrangement makes you miserable, and I hope your pathetic crew gets blown out of the water before they even make land. Especially the annoying raccoon-dog that wouldn’t stop calling your name.”

Sanji stiffens.

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” He says, low and dangerous.

Yonji stands and dusts himself off.

“Oh? Reiju didn’t mention that we ran into your ship? Funny.”

“What did you do to them?” Sanji steps forward, threatening.

“Maybe I would have told you if you’d heard me out. Sucks to suck.” Yonji turns away, waving a flippant hand over his shoulder. “See you two later for an ass beating,” He says, walking out the doors.

Click. Go has to suppress a laugh.

Sanji takes a deep drag and turns back to the table. He stares at both occupants for a weighted moment before exhaling smoke and sitting back down directly across from Reiju - in the seat labeled “3.”

“Tell me he was pulling that from his ass,” Sanji begs, weary.

Reiju meets his gaze evenly, but doesn’t refute.

Click. Go closes their eyes. Focuses on the drug. They’re starting to lean into it, when they’re hurt. Using it like a crutch.

They can’t dwell on what that might mean right now.

“So, what’s your game, then? Play good marine to his bad marine? Convince me to stay because you let my crew sail away?”

“No.” Reiju crosses her arms. “And I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Reiju sighs. “Because it would be pointless.”

“Pointless?” He repeats, furious.

“Yes. They’re not going to make it past Tottoland’s defenses, and even if they did, you can’t escape anyway. So hearing about it would either distress you or give you false hope that will make you even more miserable down the line. Pointless.”

The way Sanji angrily chews his cigarette tells them that Reiju is absolutely correct. But Go doesn’t particularly like her, so they’re not about to jump to her defense. Especially not while Sanji is actively pissed at her.

“I don’t give a sh*t how it makes me feel. They’re my goddamn nakama. If there’s any news on them, I want to f*cking know.”

Reiju frowns.

“Fine. Your captain was mortally poisoned from eating the skin of the most toxic fish known to man out of starvation. Half his organs should have failed twenty minutes before I arrived, but I purged the toxin and he seemed to be fine, somehow. The rest of your crew was smart enough not to touch the skin, but stupid enough that they were ready to fight myself and Yonji in our raid suits if we had you.”

“…Luffy was starving?”

“They all were.”

Go wants to strangle her. Sanji is a f*cking chef. All this is going to do is give him an excuse to flay himself over being kidnapped. But that’s why she tried to avoid this in the first place. Giving these details now, she’s doing it to teach him a lesson: knowing is only going to hurt you more.

Except Sanji is stupid as hell, and he won’t learn that lesson. He’s just going to blame himself for not being there to feed them, and continue to seek more information to torture himself all over again.

Click. Go soaks up the dopamine. They f*cking need it.

“Was everyone there?” Sanji asks.

“On deck, I saw Straw Hat Luffy, Cat Burglar Nami, Cotton Candy Chopper, Soul King Brook, and two minks - a jaguar and a rabbit - without bounties that I’m aware of. They were accompanied by a subordinate of Big Mom, Pekoms, who refused to disclose his business with the Straw Hats.”

Holy sh*t. The skeleton is real. At least, the person with that title is. But there’s no proof he’s an undead skeleton. There’s still a chance they don’t owe Imakura five hundred belli.

A pang of grief stabs into them. Not that they’ll ever see Imakura again. If he’s even alive.

Click.

More, they beg, shamefully. They’re rewarded with another Click.

“…further than you think,” Sanji is saying when they dial back in. “Luffy is surprising like that.”

Reiju sighs. “Well, unless you’re confident they can personally take down Big Mom and all her commanders in one fell swoop, it won’t matter how far they get.”

He’s damningly silent.

“They’d really come all the way to Whole Cake Island for you?” Go asks. They can’t keep the smile out of their voice, no matter how much they want to.

“Yeah,” Sanji sighs. “That’s the problem.”

The rest of lunch is depressingly silent. Except for Go, who is stuck being silently content.

They return to Sanji’s room afterwards. Reiju hesitates at a fork in the hall, as if she might turn left to her own quarters instead. Go walks on, happy to let her, but Sanji grabs her wrist and pulls her to the right instead.

“Not leaving you alone in this hellhole,” he grumbles to himself.

Go isn’t jealous, because they’re always happy. Besides, they spent years as Sanji’s only sibling; that can’t be erased by half a day back in this sh*tty castle, no matter how kind his heart is.

(Really, really kind.)

…Good thing Go is always happy.

Sanji wallows in his nakama angst on the bed while Go cheerfully signs tales from the Baratie and their trips to Kennedy’s house. They’re being consistently dosed to get through the cloud of grief surrounding every story, but it’s worth it to distract him in some way.

Reiju watches them curiously from the chaise lounge across the room. Back on that first night, she mentioned wanting to learn some sign language for herself, but if she ever got around to it, she shows no indication. Not that Go’s signing is at all beginner-friendly. These tales are for Sanji, and he knows all the shortcuts their hands take with the same ease he knows how to hold a paring knife.

Their plan seems to be working. The tension is starting to bleed out of Sanji, until he’s only passively depressed instead of actively self-flagellating. Stories involving Kennedy and her mom seem to be the most effective, so Go recounts the time Skye brought out an album of baby pictures, which revealed that Kennedy threw tantrums if she took a bath without socks on from ages 3 through 6. Kennedy came home from work exactly five minutes too late to keep that secret.

‘So when you say that everyone deserves to wear what makes them feel good, were you thinking of this?’ Go had teased.

“If you keep bringing it up, you’ll never get another blowj*b for the rest of your life,” she’d threatened out loud, so that her mother didn’t know what she’d said. Go decided to shut the f*ck up.

They actually get a laugh out of Sanji, with that one. Short and subdued, but a laugh nonetheless.

This is quickly ruined when Sanji suddenly sits up, ramrod straight and on edge. Two seconds later, the door to the room slams open, and Vinsmoke Judge steps inside, donning his full raid suit.

“Sanji.” He sounds pissed.

Click Click Click.

Go screws their eyes shut and falls back on the bed, melting into the mattress. Feels good. Everything’s fine. He can’t hurt Sanji, he needs him to be the groom.

“Yonji tells me that you refuse to see reason,” Judge says.

“Yonji’s a jackass who needs to learn manners,” Sanji replies.

Click. Go giggles.

“Shut them up,” Judge orders Reiju.

Click. Go can’t control the laughter tumbling out, so they grab a pillow and smother themselves before Reiju decides to drag them out of the room. Their sobs of laughter wick into the fabric, but the sound is muffled.

“So you are capable of addressing them correctly,” Sanji notes.

“The least Go can do is pretend to be something decent. In front of Big Mom’s people, she’s a princess, and if you attempt to shatter that illusion, I will lock them away until the alliance is secured.”

Click Click Click. It’s ineffably euphoric. Go can’t possibly stop laughing, their lungs won’t stop heaving with it. They press the pillow tighter to their face.

“You f*cking bastard,” Sanji growls.

“You refused to see reason with Yonji, and it’s clear you won’t see reason with me. Real men settle conflicts with combat. So if you have a problem, we’ll settle it on the battlefield.”

Click Click Click Click Click.

Go howls with laughter, throwing the pillow aside and falling off the bed, onto their knees.

“Don- hah! Don’t! Ha! Don’t fight him!” Tears streak their face, there’s so much dopamine overloading their system that the sweet twinge of pain is back. “He’ll f*ckin’ - hah! - kill you!”

“Reiju,” Judge says, irritated.

Immediately, hands seize their arms and they’re dragged away, cackling hysterically. “Ha! Sanji!” They shout, devolving into giggles. But they’re no longer in the room. Reiju drags them bodily down the hall, then shoves them into a supply closet.

She grabs their neck and bites down like a f*cking vampire, glowing pink as she sucks the neurotoxin out of their system. The dopamine production slows.

She shoves them away, roughly, and wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Get it together,” Reiju says harshly. “If you don’t learn to control your emotions, all three of us will suffer for it.”

Slowly, they come down, hysteria petering out into sporadic chuckles.

“Can’t f*cking help it,” they pant, face aching from holding this crazed smile.

“I’ve managed it fine, every single day since I was three years old. If you want to survive here - if you want Sanji to survive here - then you need to tamp it down and sit on the lid. It doesn’t matter if you’re unbearably miserable or hysterically happy: Don’t. Let it. Show.”

Go sits in a filthy mop bucket, catching their breath. Trying to process what she’s saying.

“Not all of us are naturally cold-blooded bitches,” they huff.

“Then become one,” Reiju replies immediately. “Or else you’ll be ripped to shreds and Sanji will get himself hurt defending you.”

Go lets out a mirthless laugh. “And you too, punished for failing.”

“Yes,” Reiju says, unfazed. “But you don’t care about me. So are you going to pull yourself together for his sake, or are you going to laugh in his face when they drag you back to the dungeon?”

Click.

The drug activates. Their head aches. They want so badly to melt with the dose.

But, unfortunately, Reiju is right. It doesn’t matter if the dopamine high makes it hard to control themselves. They have to try, if they want to be there for Sanji and find a way to help him escape this marriage.

“Okay.” They stand, and take a deep breath. “Every time it clicks, I’ll tap my finger. More than three times in a minute, you need to get me away.”

Reiju nods. “I can do that.”

Muffled shouts bleed through the door as a squad of soldiers run down the hall.

“Prince Sanji is dueling the Generalissimo! The mysterious Prince challenged King Vinsmoke!”

Click. Go subtly taps their thigh.

Reiju glances at it for barely a millisecond.

“Clean yourself up and meet me on Sanji’s balcony. It’s right over the arena but out of sight. You’ll be able to practice.”

Judge wields his infamous spear and impenetrable raid suit. Across the field, Sanji stands unarmed in nothing but a flimy dress shirt that Go now recognizes he was forced to wear.

They know from experience that Sanji’s kicks are as deadly as any weapon, but it doesn’t change the fact that he looks so small, opposite the man who created and discarded them.

Click. Go grinds their teeth and taps the railing. Reiju notices but doesn’t comment.

A gun fires. The fight begins.

Judge launches at Sanji, brandishing his spear in a flurry of attacks. Sanji dodges all of them with surprising speed and even more surprising grace. Zeff’s techniques are powerful and efficient, but Sanji has blended them with another style, weaving and spinning in movements not unlike ballet.

When he cannot dodge, Sanji parries with a kick. Judge’s spear is redirected every time - too wide, too high, lodged into the dirt.

Go is stunned. When Sanji left, he could beat up everyone in the restaurant with a single leg, except for Zeff and Go using their full strength (which they only ever used when he pestered them for a true comparison). But there is absolutely no timeline in which Go could take on Judge in a raid suit. Zeff could maybe do it on a good day.

Sanji hasn’t even taken a hit yet.

“Sanji knows haki?” Reiju murmurs, sounding mildly surprised.

Go assumes she’s not talking about the game “hockey” that some of the cooks bet on. But before they can ask, Judge leaps into the air on jet-propelled boots, readying an attack Go recognizes immediately, much to their terror.

His infamous Garuda spear technique. He’s beheaded multiple kings with it. Beheading someone with a spear is not an easy feat. But with enough force and precision, it’s possible to do it in a single stroke. And that stroke is currently aimed at Sanji.

Click Click Click. They tap out each dose as the high floods in. Reiju grabs their wrist, her nails digging into their skin.

“Control it,” she orders. “Focus on the fight.”

Go forces their perception to sharpen, ignoring the tempting haze of pleasure.

Sanji kicks in a way that looks like he’s adjusting his pant leg. And his foot spontaneously catches fire.

Go wonders if the drug causes hallucinations now. But nope, his leg is definitely on fire. He leaps straight up, higher than should be humanly possible, and meets Judge’s spear with the flaming heel of his dress shoe.

Licks of flame explode outward on impact, and Judge goes flying, barely catching himself in a skidding three-point landing to avoid eating sh*t.

“To think our weak little Sanji is capable of this,” Reiju says, impressed. “I can only imagine how you fight.”

“Not half this well!” Go exclaims, sporting the first genuine smile they’ve worn since the surgery. “I’m just a waiter! Sanji’s a f*cking pirate!”

They can hardly believe it. Sanji is maybe the strongest fighter they’ve ever seen. Sanji! Normal, human, fragile little Sanji is out there setting himself ablaze and putting Judge on the ropes within seconds. It’s a level of battle prowess they didn’t even know was possible, beyond a vague notion that Hawk Eyes can do things like cut galleons in half without touching them.

If this is what Sanji can do after three years, what is his captain capable of? The boy who was so good that Go turned into a mindless killing machine just to fight him. If Sanji could easily kick their ass, Luffy can probably take their head off with a single punch. And if that’s the case…

…what could an Emperor do?

Go suddenly feels queasy. The Click of the dispenser does not help the nausea. They tap the railing, faintly. Reiju’s nails draw blood on their wrist and they’re grateful.

Judge stands once again, recouping his pride. But Sanji has already moved on the offensive. He darts forward with impossible speed. Go thought they just imagined him teleporting at lunch, but his strides are so inhumanly fast that they simply can’t see him move.

Sanji climbs through the air like he’s leaping off invisible footholds, then flips forward into a spinning ax-kick, turning his silhouette into a wheel of flame.

As he flies towards Judge, a trio of soldiers break rank from a nearby formation and dart onto the battlefield, forming a human shield.

f*ck.

Sanji’s fire immediately snuffs out, and he lands perfectly on one leg, shoe mere inches from a soldier’s face. Go and Reiju can’t hear anything from the balcony, but Sanji is almost certainly cussing them out.

Judge takes advantage of the distraction and surges his spear forward, another Garuda form. Sanji barely has enough time to raise a knee in defense before he’s flung across the battlefield, tumbling hard enough to carve a wake into the concrete bricks. He doesn’t slow at all until he slams into a tower that cracks up the side.

“Sanji!” Go calls out, reflexively.

Click Click Click Click Click. They can’t even tap. Their whole body seizes.

Something sharp digs into their skin, separate from the pain in their skull. Go latches onto the sensation. Something external and grounding to bring them back to reality.

Reiju is once again holding them upright, but they’re not drooling and only barely crying, which is an improvement from last time.

“Back,” they rasp, and don’t let themselves slump when she releases them.

Sanji has gotten up, now, while Judge leisurely approaches. Sanji snarls in defiance and sprints towards him, but the meat shields are suddenly back, stopping him cold.

Judge’s spear crackles with electricity and he plunges it forward, straight through a soldier’s chest, and stabs Sanji. Electricity arcs off of him as he convulses for a moment, then goes flying once again. This time, when he hits the tower, it crumples on top of him.

Click Click Click Click Click Click Cli-

Go passes out.

When they come to, Reiju is standing over them, disgustedly licking blood from her lips. Their head is pounding and the f*cking human bite mark on their neck is deeper.

Disoriented as hell, it takes them way too long to dismiss the “oh sh*t she’s a vampire” instinct and recall the neurotoxin thing.

“Sanji is fine. Wash up before Father drags him here for me to bandage.”

Barely cognizant, Go stumbles to their feet, and then towards the bathroom. They press fancy white towels into the wound until the bleeding stops - superhumanly fast, at least. Ruins a towel, though. And they ruin a second one blotting as much blood as possible out of the satin.

When they re-enter the bedroom, Sanji and Judge are already there.

Sanji looks… remarkably fine. Covered in dust, but not a spec of blood on him beyond a tiny bandage on his forehead. Which is absurd, because he got stabbed in the gut and then had an entire building collapse on him. Go apparently sustained more injury from Reiju biting them.

What the f*ck.

Judge’s back is to them, and he’s saying some truly abhorrent but not at all surprising sh*t.

“-I haven’t changed at all. I don’t consider you my son. I’ve only found a use for you. Big Mom is a psychopath, and I won’t have any real Vinsmoke tied to her. You’re nothing but a sacrificial lamb.”

Click. Click.

But it’s not Go’s implant. On the couch, Reiju latches two gold bracelets around Sanji’s wrists.

“What the hell?” Sanji asks, inspecting them.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with the collars Celestial Dragons use for their slaves?” Judge says.

Go isn’t, but their stomach drops anyway. And the look on Sanji’s face only makes it worse.

“These cuffs work similarly. Big Mom lent them to me. I didn’t think I’d need to be so crass, but you’ve proven to be incorrigible. If you attempt to escape, those bracelets will explode and cut your hands clean off.”

Click Click. That’s their implant actually going off, and they force themselves to calm down to avoid another f*cking episode.

“You filthy bastard!” Sanji spits, prying at the cuffs. They start beeping rapidly. Reiju quickly fiddles with them.

“If you tamper with or try to break them, they will trigger,” She informs him.

Go’s blood boils. f*cking Reiju. She can pretend to care behind Judge’s back all she wants, but at the end of the day she’ll always be his loyal dog. Too scared of discipline to be kind in any way that matters.

Click. The dopamine rushes and they soak it in happily, just to spite her.

“The tea party is in two days. I suggest you come to terms with your situation,” Judge says. Then he turns to Go, who didn’t realize he noticed them.

“Shave,” he orders, voice dripping with disgust, and leaves.

Go flinches as the door slams behind him. Dazed, they bring a hand to their face and feel the faintest prickle of stubble.

Click.

Sanji is giving Reiju the cold shoulder, and Go’s aura is oscillating violently between “murderous” and “too high to think,” so she leaves shortly after Judge. Silently and without comment.

Go lies with Sanji on the bed, staring up at the canopy. Avoiding too much thought that could trigger the mechanism in their skull. It hardly works.

“We have a real father,” Sanji says out of the blue.

Go turns their head towards him.

“One who wouldn’t do this,” he says, like he has to remind himself.

“Who loves us,” Go adds. Because they know Sanji has trouble believing anyone could, outside of Go and Sora. Maybe that list is longer now, with his nakama, but they have a feeling he still can’t bring himself to accept the truth explicitly.

Their hunch is confirmed when his breath hitches.

“It’s true.” Go sits up so they can sign. ‘He’s sh*t at saying it, but you know I’m right.’

Sanji is silent and still for a moment. Until he finally signs:

‘Remember the first time he saw me fight with my hands?’

The memory makes them snort.

‘He was so pissed,’ Go recalls, ‘Swearing the entire time he bandaged you about how a chef’s hands are precious. And then you said-’

“‘But Go punches stuff all the time, and they need their hands to talk,’” Sanji finishes aloud, grinning like a fool.

‘He went apoplectic.’ Go grins back. ‘Did I ever tell you he tried to make me stop, too?’

Sanji raises an eyebrow. ‘No way.’

‘The next morning, you had off to rest, and he threatened to kick my ass for every time I threw a punch instead of a kick.’

‘Bullsh*t.’

‘It’s true! But I told him he’d have to actually step out of the damn kitchen to enforce that, and he gave up pretty fast.’

‘You really are the favorite. sh*tty geezer would knock my ass into last week if I said that.’

‘I’m the favorite?’ They sign incredulously, ‘You’re the embodiment of his legacy, you Pirate Chef All-Blue motherf*cker. He just realized I’ll never care about broken fingers even half as much as you care about not cooking for a week.’

“Oi!” He protests. Go nudges his leg playfully.

‘It probably also helped that my hands would heal in half the time yours would.’ They shrug.

Sanji’s smile slowly dissolves, and he sullenly traces a finger over the gold cuffs. As if remembering there are multiple precious things keeping him here.

Click, Go’s implant contributes.

Eventually, they both lay back down, and stare at the ceiling in silence again.

Go can’t shave themselves. It makes them feel awful, which triggers the drug, which makes them too distracted to keep their hands steady.

They don’t want to go back to the barber. To smile while a stranger destroys them… they can’t do that again.

So, they ask Sanji. The look he gives them is absolutely miserable.

“Go, I won’t do that to you.”

‘Please,’ they sign, ‘it needs to come off, and I can’t stomach a stranger again.’

“I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you for that bastard.”

Go can’t even blame him. They wouldn’t be able to do this sort of thing to Sanji, either.

Which means that, as much as they hate it, they have to ask someone who doesn’t mind hurting Go at Judge’s behest. The one other person they know who won’t also take it as a chance to carve up their face.

“I need your help,” they grit out between smiling teeth.

Reiju answers her door with a perfectly disaffected expression, as always. She glances disinterestedly at the straight razor in their hand.

“You know how to shave,” she says bluntly.

“My hands are. Unsteady. These days.” Still grinning.

“We have servants.”

“No.”

“Ask Sanji.”

Click. “Nope!”

“I’m a princess. Not a barber.”

Why the f*ck is she being so difficult about this?

“You’ve done it before,” they say, cheeks tight from smiling. “So just shave it again or Judge will smack us around and then make you do it anyway.”

Reiju narrows her eyes, frown tightening.

Then she sighs and opens the door further.

“Fine.”

At least the first time, they were dissociating. Now that they’re conscious it’s just plain awkward. The dopamine helps. The bitter tension in the air over her betrayal does not. But it’s still marginally better than a total stranger.

Marginally.

Reiju is steadily efficient. Smooth motions with impressive speed and not a single nick.

“Why the hell do you know how to do this?” Go asks when she pulls the blade away to inspect. They blame the drugs for lowering their inhibitions.

Her hands go carefully still.

“Father taught me,” she says evenly.

…what the f*ck?

“What the f*ck?” They blurt.

Reiju is naturally a very cold person, but the atmosphere becomes downright icy.

“A dexterity task,” she says, voice clipped. “With high stakes for failure.”

Before they can ask “what the f*ck?” again, the blade is back at their neck, slicing through stubble.

In the forced silence, they have time to dwell on the fact that none of the clone soldiers have facial hair of any kind. And their brothers’ metal skin wouldn’t cut with a simple razor. Which means that Judge likely made Reiju practice on him. Multiple times, to be this proficient.

He would never make one of their brothers do something as menial as shaving another person. Not even Sanji. Too unbefitting of a prince, even a failure of one.

He would never make their brothers wear something as demeaning as Reiju’s raid suit, either. As Go’s raid suit.

Click. They savor the small high. Any distraction is welcome. They can’t let that train of thought continue.

Chapter 24: Boilover

Chapter Text

The series of dopamine rushes that Go is accustomed to receiving at dinner are less enjoyable with Reiju watching them like a hawk and Sanji staring mournfully at them across the table. Objectively, though, it still feels great. Loads better than the depression.

At first, Yonji makes comments about them being an addict. They just laugh in his face every time with some variation of “feels good!” Which is apparently not as fun as slowly beating their spirit down over the course of a meal.

So he pivots into doing exactly that to Sanji, instead. Go thinks it’s pretty stupid of him to goad the guy who already proved he can cave your skull in, but stupidity is Yonji’s specialty.

For the most part, it only makes Sanji more and more pissed. Unfortunately, the few times Yonji says something that does genuinely upset him, Go gets hit with a fresh dose of neurotoxin, and their reaction makes it seem like they’re mocking him too. They do their best to tamp the smiles down, but it just ends up looking like a horrible toothy grimace.

They resolve to clean their plate as quickly as possible while maintaining decency. Sanji cottons on about halfway through and matches their pace.

“May I be excused, sh*tty bastard?” They ask Judge politely, once it’s empty.

Because he’s an egomaniac on a power trip, Judge requires that his children request to be excused from every meal with him. After Go just f*cked off and left the first few days, Judge handcuffed them to their chair until they said it.

At first, they only asked his stupid permission. But once Judge got irritated enough with their lack of filter, they started tacking on insults, too. Judge is normally so sick of them by the end of the meal that he grants it anyway. Go takes the small victories.

But apparently, with siblings around, Judge is no longer conceding those.

“No,” he says, bored but firm, “Say it properly.”

Go grits their teeth behind the smile. “May I be excused?”

“I said properly.”

Click.

They can’t. They won’t. Not with Sanji’s concerned eye on them across the table. Who knows how much he remembers from their (rarer) childhood family dinners, but Go recently had a rather in-depth refresher course. And the “proper” request violates the one last little boundary that Go has refused to cross so far. That they’ve miraculously managed to avoid.

“Say it, or Reiju will tie you down and you will sleep here until you’re ready to say it at breakfast.”

No. No, Sanji is finally here. They were going to sleep in the same room again for the first time in years. It was the one f*cking thing they had to look forward to in this goddamn hellhole.

Across the table, Sanji is steaming. But everyone here now knows he would never raise a hand against a woman. Which means he can’t save them from Reiju even if he somehow won a second round with Judge.

Click.

“May I please be excused… Father.”

The title drips with as much venom as they can summon with their cheeks forced into a painful grin. The words taste vile. No high in the world could sweeten them.

A week and a half. That’s as far as they could stick to their principles. Pathetic. Maybe it’s a good thing they’ll never see Zeff again, because the thought of facing him now makes them f*cking sick.

Click.

“Yes, you may,” Judge says, a gross little smirk on his lips. “The tea party is only two days away. Can’t afford to be lax on your manners anymore.”

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

They stand abruptly, chair screeching on tile, and leave as quickly as possible.

“Oh, and report to the gynecology lab at noon, tomorrow,” Judge calls distractedly after them.

Click.

THUD.

Go whirls around. Sanji is standing, his chair completely toppled over, palms splayed out angrily on the table.

“Actually,” Sanji says, “Go and I have plans tomorrow. You’ll have to reschedule.”

The air around him is so thick with raw powerpowerPOWER, they’re choking on it from the doorway. It’s an aura that Zeff has only given off a handful of times to quietly threaten rowdy customers, but Sanji is projecting it like an air horn.

Somehow, Judge doesn’t even seem affected.

“I suppose that gives me plenty of free time to call my agents in East Blue, then.” He stares evenly at Sanji. “I can ask them to cut off a few hands. Maybe some heads.”

Click.

“You sick-”

“Sanji,” Go interrupts. “It’s fine.” They turn to Judge. “I’ll f*cking be there. May Sanji be excused now, Father?”

“Sure. I don’t care,” he says dismissively, attention already turned back to his meal.

Yonji chuckles.

Go grabs Sanji’s arm and drags him away before he explodes.

“If he’s unconscious he can’t tell Reiju sh*t,” Sanji grumbles.

Go changes into night clothes without comment. Wouldn’t be worth the effort to point out he can’t take Judge and Yonji at the same time. He’s been bitching nonsensically since they got back to Go’s room.

Where Go’s stress response is to freeze, Sanji’s is to fight. An ironic reversal from when they were children. Looking back, the transition is comically perfect timing, too. Since the rock, pressure has only made Sanji fight harder - his adrenaline and anger fueling stronger kicks. Just in time to pick up the slack for Go’s stupid bouts of frozen panic.

The downside to the fight response, however, is that being unable to kick ass turns Sanji into a goddamn rabid badger, chomping at the bit to beat the sh*t out of something.

“I won’t let them take you. Whoever comes to drag you there, I’ll turn them into au jus.”

Click. Go pulls their hair back, starting a loose braid.

“No one is going to drag me, moron, I’m gonna walk myself there.”

“What?” Sanji whips around, furious. “Like hell!”

“If they’re going to harvest my eggs like a f*cking farm hen, I need to be awake to make sure they’re not doing… anything else down there. I can’t be beat to sh*t and drugged six ways from Sunday.”

They pause.

“More than I already am.”

“You won’t be getting on the table at all,” Sanji argues, “Over my dead body.”

“No, over Zeff’s,” Go says without thinking.

Sanji flinches.

Click Click. Go shivers.

“Don’t fight me on this,” They say with a sad smile. “If I get too many doses before bed, I can’t sleep.”

Sanji is silent.

Their braid is all messed up now, so they tug it apart and start over.

Sanji sighs, grabbing their arm and pulling them towards the bed.

“I’ll do it, dumbass. Your braids suck.”

“I was the one who taught you, asshole!”

“And then I learned how to do it faster and better from an army of okama.”

They consider the intricate waterfall braid he arrived in.

“…Touché.”

His fingers part and weave their hair with gentle skill. The technique is new but the feeling is the same. They find themselves drifting, mind slipping into something peaceful, for the first time in days.

“I’m sorry to ask this,” Sanji says eventually, pulling them back to the present. He’s done. Has been for a while, Go realizes belatedly. “But I have to know. You- you said our brothers killed half the waitstaff. Who…?”

He trails off.

Click Click.

Go closes their eyes, takes a deep breath and lets the dopamine float them above the memory. Remembering, but not inside their body. Like they’re reciting one of Sanji’s fairy tales.

“Diswan, Imakura, Wasp,” Go says, voice far away. “Don’t know if they’re dead. Probably. Diswan was punched through the ceiling. Imakura got his arm crushed and head kicked in. Wasp got gutted like a fish… everything was spilling out…”

Click.

“Mm. And then the kitchen tried to fight. But I was suffocating. Passed out. Dunno if anyone else was hurt.”

“f*ck,” Sanji breathes, wrecked.

Click.

Go giggles. It’s so insensitive. They’re the worst. They can’t help it.

“Ha! Kennedy probably showed up for our date and ermph-!”

Sanji tackles them, shoving a hand over their mouth.

“Don’t say her name!” he hisses in their ear. “You trying to give them more f*cking hostages?”

Click Click Click Click-

Go seizes. Tears pour down their face and spit coats Sanji’s palm but he holds them down dutifully, muffling their hysteric laughter.

It takes nearly two minutes for them to stop, and another minute for their voice to return.

Cautiously, Sanji removes his hands.

“f*ck, sorry,” Go pants.

Sanji pulls out a cigarette and fumbles with his lighter. They don’t have the energy to rib him about smoking in their bed. He looks harrowed enough that it’d probably be cruel.

Eventually, his fingers cooperate and it lights. He takes a few long hits and rubs his eyes with his palms. At least he ashes it onto the floor and not directly over their duvet.

“f*ck,” he says, with feeling. He fists his hands into his hair. Go, familiar with the habit, gently pulls them off and places them in his lap.

Sanji sucks down the entire cigarette and stubs it out on the wall before he speaks again.

“I’m leaving my crew,” he says.

Click.

“Haha! No!” Go replies.

“I’m serious,” Sanji says. He looks ten years older than he should.

“This is as serious as I can be right now!” Go promises, smile manic, “We’ll find a way to get you back to them!”

“I can’t, Go,” he sighs.

“Sure you can! Luffy’s strong. He’ll somehow make it here, and you’ll sneak away, and I’ll help you flee! And-”

“Go, listen-”

“Ha! No!”

“LISTEN!” He shouts. Go’s mouth snaps shut. Sanji switches to sign.

‘As long as the Baratie is hostage, one of us has to stay under Germa’s thumb—’

‘YEAH, ME! ME!’ Go signs aggressively. But Sanji doesn’t even glance at their hands, he keeps talking.

‘—and it’s going to be me,’ he plows on.

‘NO! You have a crew, a dream-’

“Stop,” Sanji says sharply. “I’m going to speak for one minute, and you can yell at me after. But you have to f*cking listen until I’m done, got it?”

Go grits their teeth, but nods.

Sanji takes a deep breath.

‘One of us needs to stay. And, objectively, it would be better for it to be me. For one, I can’t leave without losing my hands,’ he holds up his cuffed wrists, ‘and for another, Judge only needs me to get married. I’ll live an idyllic life with a pretty girl on an island made of chocolate.

‘But Judge isn’t pawning you off. He wants to keep you here, continue to drug, humiliate, and violate you, then mutilate you into submission. Until he finally has a hundred perfect clone replacements and can just kill you instead.

‘That is objectively worse, Go. A lot f*ckin’ worse. And I’d rather die than let you go through that at all, let alone for my sake. So when Luffy - despite every impossible obstacle - crashes into this sh*tty country, I’m going to make him leave. And he’s going to take you with him.’

Sanji finally stops his speech.

“There. Now go ahead and bitch at me, even though I’m right.”

Go received a steady stream of dopamine to get through that. But they never let their eyes off his hands for even a moment.

‘You f*cking idiot, you have a goddamn dream! A nakama that needs you! You’re not going to throw that away for me!’

‘You have a girlfriend! And a body that’s still yours!’

‘My life’s purpose is to protect you, first and foremost.’

“No, it isn’t,” Sanji growls.

‘Yes, it is.’

“No, it isn’t!” He raises his voice. “You’re a person outside of me, moron! And I haven’t needed you for THREE f*ckING YEARS!”

His shout echoes off the concrete walls.

Go is paralyzed. That- they heard that wrong. Sanji wouldn’t say that. He wouldn’t.

“sh*t,” he recoils, as if processing his own words for the first time. “f*ck. Go, I didn’t mean-”

So he did say it. He did. They heard correctly.

“I see.”

Click.

“Go-”

Click.

“If you don’t need me anymore, then it shouldn’t matter if I stay here.”

Sanji’s face twists into anger.

“That is not what I f*cking meant, don’t you dare say that sh*t you-”

“-repulsive mistake?” Go finishes for him, cruelly. Click. “Stupid mute?” Click. “Disgusting he-she?”

“Stop.” Sanji orders, tight with rage. He’s on his feet now, and Go rises to match him.

“Perverted fa*g?” Click. “Ha! Transvestite scum?” Click.

“Shut up!”

“Ha ha! Tongue-tied moron!” They laugh, Click Click Click. “Or - ha! - defective sex! Freak of nature! Better off dead!”

“Shut your f*cking MOUTH!” Sanji screams.

Knuckles collide with their face. The force sends them spinning and slamming into the floor. Blood wells in their mouth. Before they can react, they’re pinned to the ground, Sanji sitting on top of them.

“No one. Talks about my sibling like that,” He says darkly.

Go can’t help it, they laugh. Uproarious and ugly, blood straining their teeth.

“Everyone does!” They wheeze, “Since the day I was born! Judge, our brothers, the doctors, the customers, they all say it! I should have known you were thinking it, too-”

Their head snaps to the side with the force of another punch. A spray of blood and a molar fly through the air.

“Never,” Sanji growls, that aura of power directed at them. “I would sooner renounce the All Blue. Cut off my own hands. I would rather kill myself.”

Click Click Click Click Click Click Click-

Go passes out.

They wake up in a slightly different bed. Same trappings, but pink instead of red.

Reiju’s room.

Go sits up. Their head spins violently. Vomit rises in their throat and they swallow it back down.

The room is dark. Curtains are drawn, no semblance of light filtering through, meaning it’s the middle of the night.

Reiju is asleep on the nearby futon. There’s no sign of Sanji. Not even a hint of tobacco in the air.

Click.

Dizziness and nausea surges again. Go stumbles for the bathroom, clipping the doorframe, and only just makes it to the toilet to empty the contents of their stomach. Twice.

The third bout of heaving is just bile. By then, a very tired and sleep-tousled Reiju stands in the doorway behind them.

“I got the excess out of your system, but your hypothalamus is still sensitive from overwork.”

No f*cking sh*t. Go thinks, but they don’t have the coordination or energy to actually say it. They just collapse over the rim of the toilet. Now that she mentions it, they’re hyper-aware of a new, already-scabbing bite wound on the cold porcelain.

“Sanji just dumped you here, by the way,” she says. “No explanation. Left as soon as you stopped seizing.”

Click.

Pain lances through their skull. They heave more bile into the toilet.

f*ck off, they try to say. What comes out is “hrrng.”

“Hm,” Reiju hums, like she’s studying a disappointing bug. “Well, I’m accompanying you to your refill in the morning to make them institute an upper dosage limit. If you pass out in front of Big Mom, the alliance is at risk.”

More like you’re at risk, you selfish c*nt, Go thinks. But they’re still too disoriented to speak. A string of drool feeds into the toilet bowl.

“I’m taking the bed back. You’re welcome to sleep in the bathroom, but if you can get your feet under you, I recommend the futon.”

Go flips her off as she leaves.

Chapter 25: Concessions

Chapter Text

When Reiju peels them off the couch in the morning, their head still f*cking hurts. But at least the nausea is gone.

True to her word, she accompanies Go to their sh*tty refill, and chews out all the doctors until they agree to f*cking regulate their illegal neurotoxin dispenser. Yay.

Unfortunately, this means Go is in the neurology ward from 6 AM to 11:45 AM, when they tell Reiju to piss off and let them go to gynecology. Which she only allows after they promise to come straight back to finish installing the new mechanisms afterwards. Not like Go has anywhere to hide in this sh*thole.

They haul ass across the two den den ships, and make it to gynecology at 11:58.

Sanji is in the lobby.

More specifically, Sanji is in the lobby with a face bruised like an old peach, horrifically swollen. His white shirt is ripped and covered in blood, a broken lingerie strap hanging out from the open front. He leans with his arms crossed against the far wall, right next to the entrance to the intake room, smoking casually.

Click. Their head throbs.

“What the f*ck?” Go asks, somewhere between a grin and a snarl, stalking towards him.

“Shut up. I’m still pissed at you,” Sanji says, puffing smoke at them. They wave it away, irritably.

“What happened? And why the hell are you here?”

“I’m here because I don’t want you on that damn sh*tty table.”

Click.

“Your face—”

“Don’t worry about my face.”

Click.

“Right! Forgot you don’t need me anymore.” They laugh bitterly.

Sanji flicks away his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe.

“I’m not letting you live in your own personal hell just because you miss being the stronger sibling. Get over it.”

Go must be losing their goddamn mind.

“The f*ck?”

“I’m not your weakling pet project anymore. Sorry to deny your ego.”

Click.

“That’s what you think our relationship is? Ha! Maybe I’ll ask Judge to move up my lobotomy, then! Since I’m already such an unfeeling prick!”

“Princeps Go.” A voice interrupts next to them.

The two of them are snarling in each others’ space, like fighting dogs. Suddenly self aware, they both take a step back, slipping on guarded expressions.

A technician in scrubs stands in the doorway, looking nervous as hell to have interrupted a royal screaming match. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“The Generalissimo requests we start immediately.”

The fear in his voice suggests that “immediately” was actually “five minutes ago.” Not that Go has any sympathy for this random unethical nurse who’s about to strap them down and scrape out their ovaries.

Click.

They close their eyes at the dose. Sweet, precious euphoria with a grounding jab of pain. They need it. This could even be a pleasant experience, if they focus on the high.

“I’m coming in with them,” Sanji says.

Go’s eyes fly open.

“No,” they say, at the same time the technician says “Uh—“

“I’m a Prince here or whatever, right?” Sanji steamrolls. “So you can’t argue. I’m going in too.”

The nurse guy is clearly having the worst day of his life.

“We don’t have a spare set of scrubs, my prince—”

“Then I’ll wear whatever you sickos put Go in.”

Click.

“Nude, Sanji.”

“Fine by me,” he says without missing a beat.

Bullsh*t. Sanji is almost as insecure about his body as they are about theirs. He wears three-piece suits like normal people wear t-shirts. Before his nakama, Go was the only person on earth to see him even half naked after age four.

“Um, Prince Sanji,” the technician stammers.

“What? If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me, right?”

“Er—”

A doctor appears in the doorway.

“We need the princeps in sterilization, now,” he snaps at the first guy.

“Right. Follow me, please, your highnesses,” The technician says anxiously, apparently not willing to waste more time arguing.

Click.

Go can’t spare the energy to fight Sanji right now either. They need every drop of neurotoxin they can get so they don’t have a panic attack on the table or something.

In a daze, they let the technicians strip them and shove them through the decontamination shower. The nurses pull them like a helium balloon towards that table, and Go floats too high to process the cold leather and hard metal restraints. The dispenser in their head is generous.

They do, however, have just enough awareness to see a shock of yellow in their periphery. Their head lolls to the side. Sanji exits the sterilization shower. Go likes Sanji. They were mad at him, earlier, but everything feels good now. It doesn’t matter. They giggle.

“Hi, Sanji!” They greet, beaming.

He’s naked. And frowning. The bruises on his face extend all over his body. It probably hurt quite a bit.

Click.

But he’s here, and that’s enough for Go.

“Hi, Go,” he says tiredly. Reaching for their pinned hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Sanji is so kind.

“Sanji.” Judge’s disapproving voice crackles over the speaker.

Click.

“I’m not going to interfere, you sh*tty bastard, but I’m not f*cking leaving, either.”

“You are embarrassing the Vinsmoke name with your nudity.”

“Thanks. Do you plan to spend an hour bitching at me for it, or can we get this violation done with, already?”

Click. Mm… Everything feels so good.

Judge grunts. “Fine. I’m busy enough today. Begin extraction.”

It’s not that bad. Hospitals always suck, but Go’s head hums with pleasure the entire time, and Sanji’s hand never leaves theirs, so they barely even notice the cold, probing instruments that normally trigger them into dissociation.

It’s simultaneously a relief and a deeply terrifying precedent.

They’re only strapped to the table for an hour, miraculously, because as soon as the procedure is complete, Sanji starts to undo the restraints.

“Prince Sanji, the princeps can’t leave yet—”

“You’re done collecting. They’re sitting up.”

“But depending on the yield, we may need to—”

“If you need to do it again, they’ll lay back down. But Go’s not sitting in f*cking stirrups while you run your bullsh*t tests.”

Go laughs. Sanji’s great. And better yet, Judge doesn’t come over the intercom to deny him. He might have even left for now.

They sit cross-legged on the linoleum floor together, because even high, Go doesn’t love being on that bed any longer than absolutely necessary.

If they close their eyes, it’s just like the first few horrid months in the cage; deepest shame exposed, on the cold hard ground beside Sanji in exhausted silence.

Click.

Eventually, the doctors must feel f*cking awkward that their royalty is lounging naked on the dirty hospital tile (one of them covered head-to-toe in nasty bruises), because a nurse brings in two pillows and flimsy hospital gowns.

Sanji is livid.

“You had this sh*t the entire goddamn time, and you never even f*cking offered them?” He shouts at the doctors, who all pretend they can’t hear him, heads buried in clipboards that they’re certainly not reading. Sanji - who stood up to scream properly - turns his head down to address Go. “Have you ever been given one to wear?”

“Only after discharge when they threw out my clothes!” Go says, grinning. They don’t like that Sanji is upset, but their head is dancing happily. This is the best they’ve ever been treated in this place by leagues.

Sanji grinds his teeth and flexes his ankle, glaring murderously at the opaque plexiglass window that leads to the observation room. If it wasn’t for Judge’s panopticon, every single doctor in the theater would be unconscious already. The fantasy makes Go laugh.

After another hour of sitting around (“Those bastards were going to keep you on that bed this entire f*cking time?”), a technician gets a message from the cloning lab that the yield was viable.

“Hm,” says Judge over the speaker.

Click. Go startles at his voice before the drug soothes them. Either he returned for the results, or he was watching silently the entire time.

“Numbers are fine, but not ideal. Increase fertility hormone dosage for the next collection. Let’s do… another 25%.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the doctors says.

Sanji’s eye twitches.

“Can we f*cking leave now, sh*thead?” He shouts at the window.

Judge doesn’t respond. Instead, a nurse approaches.

“My prince and princeps, we are finished now. Please wait here for a moment while someone retrieves your clothes.”

Go grins dopily up at him in gratitude. Sanji scoffs.

Rrrgurgurgurgur.

Sanji’s head snaps to Go like a hawk spotting prey.

“Oi, was that your f*cking stomach?”

“I missed two meals, asshole.”

“You- I thought you just avoided breakfast because you were pissed at me! Why didn’t you raid the kitchen, idiot?”

“Ha! I’ve been stuck in hospitals since dawn! I have to go straight back to neurology for dispenser adjustment after this or Reiju will kick my ass.”

A vein bulges in Sanji’s forehead.

“These f*ckers are pumping drugs into you on an empty stomach.”

Click.

“Mmhm. Not the first time, not the last.”

Sanji grabs their shoulders.

“I’m a chef, dumbf*ck! I’ll make damn sure it’s the last!”

At this point, a technician arrives with two stacks of neatly folded clothes. It’s immediately clear that someone fetched a fresh set to replace the torn sh*t Sanji arrived in. His lacy bralette isn’t visible, and Go doubts it’s in the stack at all. They feel a brief twinge of loss.

Click.

Sanji doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s already throwing on clothes.

“Which building is neurology, sh*tty moron?”

Sanji kicks down the door to the neurology lab about ten minutes after Go gets there. He ignores a pissed Reiju’s shouts and dumps a brown paper bag in Go’s lap.

“Everyone who isn’t my sibling, get the hell out. Anyone who comes back before twenty minutes gets their face kicked in,” he declares.

The doctors and techs scatter like rats.

Curiously, Go peeks inside the bag. It’s three sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

“Turkey, provolone, and cucumber with a cayenne honey drizzle,” Sanji says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. “On sliced ciabatta.”

Go rips away the paper and scarfs the first one down like a wild animal. They missed their brother’s food so f*cking badly. Zeff’s cooking is beyond phenomenal, but Sanji has a lot of Go’s favorite recipes in his arsenal that the sh*tty geezer just doesn’t enjoy making, or that don’t have a place on a five-star menu.

Like sandwiches.

‘f*ck, that’s delicious,’ Go signs, still chewing. The cayenne honey is the perfect kick to the understated flavors of the turkey and provolone. The cucumber adds just enough freshness to the salty, dry sandwich. ‘Thank you. Holy sh*t.’

Sanji smirks and blows a cloud of smoke. Such a smug asshole. But damn did he earn the right.

“You brought them lunch,” Reiju says flatly. “You sent away our team of top neuroscientists, who are working to prevent Go from suffering debilitating seizures, so that they can eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah,” Sanji replies, taking another drag.

Reiju stares at him.

“I thought you two were arguing,” she says.

“We are,” Go and Sanji say in unison.

Go tears into the next sandwich.

“…Right.” Reiju looks dubiously between them.

“You weren’t at breakfast either,” Sanji says, eyeing her in return. “What have you eaten today?”

Reiju sighs.

“Nothing, Sanji. I’ve been busy.”

Wordlessly, Go pulls out the third sandwich, and holds it out to her. The other hand is still helping them make progress on sandwich #2.

She doesn’t take it.

“Tch. Knew I should’ve made extra,” Sanji says, stubbing the cigarette out on his sole. “How many more you want?”

Go holds up three fingers around the remains of the sandwich.

“Christ, you’re almost as bad as Luffy. Reiju?”

She looks irritated. Still hasn’t taken Go’s offered food.

“I don’t want a sandwich. I’m busy.”

Well, more for Go. They tuck into the third.

“Hm,” Sanji hums, displeased. “Back in five.”

He’s barely gone for two minutes when Reiju asks:

“What happened to his face?”

Go pauses in their chewing.

“f*ck if I know,” they say around a suddenly bitter mouthful. “Bastard doesn’t need me anymore.”

Click.

The food is good. Finish the food.

Reiju openly stares at them.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She asks.

“None of your f*cking business,” Go replies.

Reiju crosses her arms.

“You can dislike me all you want, but I request that you tone down the obtuse hostility when I’m trying to help Sanji.”

“HA!” Go barks a laugh. “Help him? You strapped two f*cking bombs to his wrists!”

Reiju’s eyes dart quickly to the door, double-checking no one is outside.

“I didn’t,” she says evenly. “They’re unarmed. I would never put Sanji’s life in danger.”

Go pauses. Puts down the sandwich.

“…Unarmed.”

“Yes. Even if they trigger, nothing will happen. They’re harmless.”

She’s dead serious. Reiju doesn’t have obvious tells, but she’s also not usually the type to manipulate people with lies. Lying by omission, sure, but not directly to their face. She’s likely telling the truth.

“So why. The f*ck. Didn’t you tell us that?”

“The same reason I didn’t mention his crew. It’s pointless. Just because I’m not going to hurt him doesn’t mean he can afford to have hope of escaping.”

Okay. Alright. So that’s kinda sh*tty of her, but ultimately really good for Go. Because A) Sanji is not in physical danger, and B) his only real reason for staying here instead of Go is now defunct.

“You’re right. Don’t tell him,” they say immediately.

They can use this. If his nakama are coming, as Sanji seems to assume, Go can convince them to kidnap Sanji before he even realizes what’s happening. And because they care about him as much as Go does, they won’t let him do something stupid like give up on his dream. It’s perfect.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Reiju says flatly. “So what happened to his face?”

Click.

“Oh! Ha, yeah, I genuinely don’t know. But it’s his whole body.”

Reiju’s eye twitches. “Our other brothers must have returned and found an excuse this morning.”

She sighs, leaning tiredly against a counter, eyes to the ceiling. “Father specifically said nothing visible. Yonji likely did that to make it my problem.”

“Your problem?” Sanji’s the one who got the sh*t beat out of him!

“Yes, my problem. I’m Sanji’s handler, too. And Yonji is still irritated that I humiliated him on the trip back.”

Go processes that for a moment.

“By saving Luffy?”

“Hm?” Reiju looks confused for a moment. “Oh, yes, that too, probably.”

Go sits up. Reiju has always been meticulously perfect when it comes to avoiding abuse. They didn’t think she would even dream of humiliating their brothers directly.

“Hold on, what else did you do to him, and can you do it again while I watch?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I kicked him into the ocean, and I’m not stupid enough to do it here, let alone now that our brothers are back.”

Physical violence. She actually raised a hand against him. Holy sh*t.

“When the hell did you grow a backbone?” Go blurts.

This was the wrong thing to say. Reiju’s defenses raise immediately, face blank like a wall of sheet metal slid overtop her expression.

“You’re one to talk,” she replies coolly.

Click.

Go laughs. “At least I never hit Sanji to save my own skin!”

Reiju’s eyes are hard as flint. “I have no delusions of being a decent person.”

The atmosphere is so cold it’s subzero. Neither of them look away.

The doorknob turns, and they both whip their heads towards it. Sanji steps inside. But he freezes as soon as he senses the tension. The cigarette twitches between his lips.

Then he’s moving easily like nothing happened.

“Sandwiches,” he says, throwing a bag at Go’s head. They catch it and start eating immediately, grateful for anything to distract from this.

“Currywurst,” he says, tossing a thermos (much more gently) at Reiju.

She snatches it out of the air on reflex, but looks dumbfounded.

“I said I didn’t need food.”

“No, you said you didn’t want a sandwich,” he jabs his cigarette at her. “You will eat. And I know you f*cking like currywurst.”

Go sure as hell didn’t know that. Considering the sheer bewilderment on Reiju’s face, she wasn’t the one who told him, either.

“How did you-?”

“A bird told me. Just eat it.”

Currywurst wasn’t even a common food for them as children. It’s more of a peasant’s dish, sold on the streets of the real islands in the North that used to belong to Germa, ages ago. When they were really little, Go thinks they can remember their mom - still healthy enough to stand - insisting on having it for some festival that never happened again once Judge started essentially outlawing fun.

But they couldn’t have been more than three. There’s no way Sanji remembered that, let alone whether Reiju liked it.

…Right?

Reiju is watching Sanji like he might start mauling her to death at any moment. But she unscrews the lid and cautiously sticks a fork inside. She brings a slice of steaming sausage to her lips and chews.

If her eyes mist a little when she goes for the second bite, Go doesn’t see sh*t.

Once the adjustment is finally f*cking finished, Reiju leaves before they even slide off the damn operating table. Sanji already left ages ago to return the thermos to the kitchen and never came back because he’s a coward.

Go hums their way back to their room, the usual happy contentedness covering the pangs of loneliness.

There’s nothing to do but stare at the ceiling for a few hours. They hide in the closet and re-read their waiter’s notebook another dozen times. Weeks of shorthand order notes or hasty responses to customer questions that needed more than a nod or head shake. There’s absolutely nothing of substance in these pages, but it’s proof of their life outside this place, so they memorize every mark like a f*cking prayer.

At some point, when they reach the first of the blank pages again, they think: This is stupid.

Sanji is less than a hundred feet down the hall, and Go’s sitting here reading order stubs just to feel human. f*ck that.

Maybe they’re pissed at Sanji, and Sanji is pissed at them, but even if he still sees them as some unfeeling guard dog who doesn’t give a sh*t about him, he’s the one thing in this sh*tty goddamn kingdom that brings them real, non-artificial joy. Whether he ends up miserably married or miraculously freed, Go would be an absolute moron to spend the last few hours before he’s gone moping and avoiding him.

They clap the notebook closed and tuck it as stealthily as possible into their dumb f*cking knee socks. (It is not at all stealthy.) And they stomp their way down the hall, kicking open Sanji’s door.

He leaps off the bed, poised defensively. He does drop the combat stance once he realizes who it is, but his posture is still guarded in a way Go never had directed at them before.

“Truce,” Go declares, taking a page from Wasp’s book. Don’t think about Wasp. “We’re still pissed at each other, but being lonely in this sh*tty hellhole while we’re both here is f*cking stupid. So, truce. Until something rips us apart, yeah?”

Sanji breathes out, and they can see the tension bleeding out of him. Actually, they realize his face is no longer bruised to sh*t.

“Truce,” Sanji agrees, at the same time Go says “Do you have f*cking super healing now?”

For a moment, Sanji stares like they’ve grown a second head. And then he doubles over in hysterical laughter.

Okay, so it turns out Reiju just slapped a cosmetic bandaid over his still very pulverized face.

In Go’s defense, Sanji can set his legs on fire at will. Some kind of super healing is totally plausible.

Pausing the fight to hang out together is the best decision they ever made. Especially since it’s looking more and more likely that neither of them will get the chance to flee anyway. Luffy is strong, but the tea party is tomorrow, Sanji has two whole countries guarding him, and they haven’t heard of any disturbances.

They can concede Reiju’s point about false hope. Once Go discarded the possibility, they at least got their brother back.