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He does not think in flowery prose when it comes to the men of the crew. He does not use soft touches nor gentle cadences when he’s with them. He will not fall to his knees before any of them and sing the passions of his heart.
Because there is nothing there. For them. Of Passions.
He does not want to kiss Zoro just as hard as he hits him, to throw them both to the floor and lick his way up every scar he can find and add new ones to that sculpted body.
Never has he had any thought to embrace Usopp gently or tightly, breathing in deeply like he can smell home in the gunpowder and chemicals. Not even when they climbed up into the clouds to face God. Not when the longnose wrenched himself away from the crew and Sanji thought (he) they would lose him forever. Not when he returned in a peculiar mask and a lie. Not even when he returned, for real, tears streaming down both their faces.
He certainly does not have a thing for his captain, who he emphasizes to himself over and over that his feelings are mixture of admiration, respect, and love for a younger brother. He does not feel giddy when his captain wraps himself around his torso, looking up with large, baleful eyes, lips turned down into a small pout. He does not cajole or tease longer than necessary to keep that body closer to him as long as possible. He will whine and seethe if the captain even rubs his head into his chest, snuffling into his neck, begging petulantly for scraps of food, not coo or chuckle.
He has never, not once, imagined what it would be like to press his ear to Franky’s chest to listen to the whir of cogs or the echo of his booming laugh as it shook both of them together.
He refuses to ever ask Brook to play a love song of any sort, and imagine that it’s dedicated to him.
He knows these feelings are unnatural, the natural course of having only two proper outlets of romantic release on a ship that is isolated on the seas more often than they are at land.
He knows this because the first time a man paid him any attention in this way was a merchant who stocked the Baratie’s wine cellar. He was fourteen and the merchant had called him beautiful and charming, touching his hand or arm repeatedly in conversation and had once even asked for a kiss goodbye.
He had told the man no but the man moved forward anyway, ignoring him, only to be blocked by a violent kick to the throat by Zeff’s peg leg, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Before anything could be said, the old man had sent Sanji a glare so furious that the young boy had immediately ran back into the kitchen.
After that, the merchant never returned and the Baratie looked to new wineries. Zeff had watched Sanji closely after that with a strange look in his eye and Sanji in turn made sure to never allow a man or himself to be like that again.
Never has he reconsidered these events or his choices, not even on NewKama island where he hid in a library of erotic queer literature that he was forced to read (out of boredom, not curiosity) for a few days while he caught his breath.
The books were a bore, he will insist with his dying breath, they did not broaden his horizons or give him new ideas or intensify old itches he had stamped down a long time ago.
He will yell from mountains and rooftops that he has only three loves in this life: women, cooking, and the sea. Nothing could ever come before or after and he will carve those words in stone, his gravestone if need be, until the day he finally, finally, believes in them.