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he's hungry. you know this deep in your heart, a skill developed in your own bout of starvation out of a bone deep empathy. your captain is hungry, even after he gorges himself on all three dinners you made him. he's hungry because he's hungry for a meal you cannot provide, not yet, and that is a blemish on your pride as a cook that you cannot and will not stand.
it is rare for you to come across something you do not know how to cook, but a cook is always learning, and you take these opportunities to expand your knowledge. this is no different. your captain is hungry, and you'll do whatever it takes to feed him.
the hunting pool for this type of prey is admittedly limited, because you are, at your core, still yourself, still a blunderingly kind crybaby, but you make do. it takes many islands, but finally, you find the perfect prey. stocky, buff, with little fat and lots of lean cuts to appreciate, and no conscience to worry over.
it takes a bit of planning to get it within reach, but you are nothing if not creative. you slur your words and stumble down an alleyway, and it follows you like a shark scenting blood. a quick kick to the jugular, careful not to damage the meat, and you drag it into your kitchen to begin working.
you've never worked with this kind of meat, no matter how similar it is to other red cuts, so you carve off tiny portions to test on. after a silent moment of appreciation for the beautiful marbling, you try everything from pan searing to broiling to smoking to baking. you have to check the taste to make sure it lives up to the standard your captain deserves, of course, and find yourself satisfied with how it's cooked.
it's a miracle that your captain only wakes up after you've already butchered and began preparing the rest of the meat. usually, he's drawn to the scent of food like a bloodhound. there's a near manic intensity to his eyes now as he stalks into the kitchen, eyes trained on your every move with unwavering focus. there is no whine for food or call of your name, not now. instead, he sits at the table and waits.
before long, you're serving him a seared rare steak with a dark gravy on the side, still bloody and minimally seasoned but with the usual care you put into it, if not more. he eats just a bit slower, letting the bites linger on his tongue rather than inhaling his meal, and when he's done, he stares up at you with wide, hungry eyes. it typically takes at least three dinners for your captain to be satisfied, and you have more meat to work with.
the next servings are devoured with equal care and reverence, and when there's nothing left, even the bones cracked open and drained of marrow, he stands and crowds you against the counter. you see it now, the sated hunger replaced by a starvation for something else.
he grabs your hands like he's found the most precious treasure in the world, pressing them to his lips and kissing up your arms. he's hushed, in a way, like he's expecting to wake up and find himself back in bed, stomach empty, tongue void of the peculiar meat he craves.
"it's okay?" he asks in a whisper, and you swallow heavily and nod. he strokes a thumb over your wrist, as if in praise, and you get lightheaded for just a moment, wanting to drown in this boy who is more important to you than life itself.
"you noticed?" he asks next, just as quiet, and you nod again, still too something- maybe overwhelmed, perhaps excited, or even determined- to speak. of course you noticed. it's built into your bones, branded into them on an isolated rock, to recognize someone's hunger. he steps even closer, your breath mingling.
"would you feed someone else?" with this meat, with a life someone once had, is left unsaid, but it doesn't matter; you shake your head. you strive to feed all those who are starving, but beggars cannot be choosers for what you serve. one can survive without a food they crave for the taste alone. only for your captain, your captain who starves for it, will you ever cook this.
"you'll feed me again?" his voice cracks just a little this time, because he's been starving but he's alive, and he'll live without it if you say no. but you'd never do that to him, never to the boy king who gave you a third chance at life and holds you close in his warmth no matter the cost.
"if you're hungry, I'll feed you," you rasp out, already planning elaborate meals to serve your captain, already wondering how you'll manage to source it without betraying the ideals that make you both who you are.
"sanji," he murmurs as he leans in, eyes full of devotion and awe as he leans in. the taste of pork lingers on his tongue as it slides against yours, and in that sensation you find yourself as close to heaven as you could ever be.