Chapter Text
"There's gonna be a festival sometime next week," Sengoku-san offhandedly mentions, one day.
They're sitting at the dinner table, absently picking at their respective bowls of miso soup. Any attempt at a conversation had petered out long ago; Rosinante hadn't brought the little leather notebook he'd been gifted from the moment his muteness had been observed as permanent, and not a brief trauma response, and any prompts from Sengoku-san had been answered with shrugs, or complete silence. It's happened enough times that Sengoku-san mostly knows how to handle them.
"Wouldn't it be fun to see what it's about?"
Rosinante shrinks back into his chair, but responds with a familiar shrug, to which Sengoku-san lets out a quiet sigh. He's been doing that a lot too.
"Rosinante," he mutters, "you need to learn how to be around others again."
He gestures to the window, where the hustle and bustle Rosinante has only slightly grown used to filters in. "It's been months since you arrived, and I can count on one hand how many people you've even been near."
Rosinante nods, slowly. No use denying it, he thinks; he's become well-acquainted with the vents and other nooks and crannies that Marineford had to offer, opting to watch others mill around instead of directly interacting with them, or even sharing the same space with them. It's easier that way. Nobody can expect anything of him. (Nobody will learn about him. Nobody will hurt him again, like everyone else did.)
"So you must at least get why I'm suggesting that, right?" Sengoku-san prompts, just slightly pleading.
He cocks an eyebrow in response.
"Bah!" Sengoku-san exclaims. "Of course you need to go! Kids your age would have been ecstatic to hear that there's gonna be a festival!"
Rosinante shakes his head, and Sengoku-san is barely able to suppress a groan. "You used to be so much easier before you settled in…" he mutters under his breath, just quiet enough to be hidden to most ears. (But not Rosinante's. He forces himself not to react.)
"Alright," Sengoku-san says, steepling his fingers. "How about this. You attend this festival, and I'll leave you alone. No need to talk to anybody, either; just being there is enough for me."
A blank stare is the only thing that answers him.
Unfortunately, Sengoku-san seems to have prepared for this outcome. Slowly, the man leans back into his chair, putting on an almost obnoxious act of thinking.
"Oh, but I did see a few Dressrosan books in the library," Sengoku-san drawls. "Some were even story books. I recognized some from what you've told me, but…" He heaves a dejected sigh. "Such a shame I can't read them on my own."
Rosinante immediately perks up, slamming his torso into the table as he leans forward, intently boring twin holes into the older man and making grabbing gestures. Something triumphant appears in Sengoku-san's expression, but it vanishes quickly.
"Then you have to hold up your end, boy."
Rosinante nods eagerly. Deal, he mouths, and sticks out a hand. Sengoku-san takes it and gives it a gentle shake… that accidentally slams Rosinante's elbow into the table.
(Ouch.)
== ❤️ ==
The Merry Marineford Festival, as it's affectionately called by most everyone on the island, is an event that takes place at the civilian grounds once every year. Amidst recruitment and training and assignments and whatever else, the top brass had long since decided to allot one singular day for everyone living there to experience pointless, stress-free entertainment form of a pop-up carnival. For refugees and civilians, it was a return to normalcy, a day they could simply exist and have fun. For Marines, it meant a break- well deserved or otherwise- where they could forget about their duties for at least a day… unless they were assigned security duty as punishment. For those with a business, if they were able to get a stall, they would experience a gigantic boom in profit- many were more willing to part with their money during these times, and in much larger amounts, after all.
Sengoku-san had managed to procure some "time-off". The last time he had done it was months ago, when he'd taken a few days of his time to help Rosinante settle, much to Kong's continued ire. He's still not exactly sure why he needed to schedule so much, even ages in advance; couldn't he force someone else to do it?
…Rosinante had asked Sengoku-san that, once, and he'd gotten this look on his face that was half horror, half confusion, and half like he'd just realized something. He'd spent the next half hour explaining how things definitely didn't work the way they did in the Holy Land, and something ugly in Rosinante had curled up in shame.
The man himself towers over everyone, dressed halfway between casual clothing and uniform- a crisp white shirt with criss-crossed pastel colored stripes and matching plain slacks. It almost makes him look domestic in a way he's never been before, and if the Justice-emblazoned coat, the cap and shoes from his uniform was removedhe'd almost blend in with everyone else. His statuesque form parts the crowd like the sea, and Rosinante is content to follow in his path, clutching at his coat as a long-since established habit, nervously brushing his free hand over his beige overalls. The black sweater underneath is very itchy, but he's almost paradoxically glad for the sensation. It distracts him from having to think too much. Having to think at all, even.
As they move, Rosinante musters up enough courage to look around. There are stalls everywhere, of different shapes and colors and sizes. Some are food stalls, but others are covered in trinkets and odd items that they seem to be selling. There's… games? Was that what Sengoku-san had told him? He doesn't think he's played many games, outside of the mischief Doffy had come up with, and the few times he'd been able to meet up with Shammy. The other Saints, young and old, almost never had, either. (The Native Hunting Competition had stopped only a year after he was born, so he doesn't think it would count.)
"Is there anything that's catching your eye?" Sengoku-san asks, heavy gaze landing on Rosinante. "I believe there's also a stage for musical performances, a petting zoo, and a food court, but we're likely gonna get to that one either way."
Rosinante shakes his head in response to the question. Most of them look way too complicated for him. And a bit boring.
Sengoku-san lets out a hum. He glances around, ebony eyes darting between the different stalls… and then he turns back to Rosinante with a twinkle of mischief that looks way too much like Garp before he does something reckless (and stupid, Sengoku-san keeps saying.)
"Well then," he says, "how about we try all of them?"
Uh oh.
At that proposition, Sengoku-san nudges him toward a cluster of stalls. They end up starting with one of the nearest ones. Ring toss, it says on a sign. It looks to be one of the most frequented stalls, mostly by families with children, overcompetetive teenagers and even , younger marines, if they were looking for simple fun. A lanky teenage boy jolts from behind the counter when Sengoku-san approaches.
"A-admiral Sengoku!" The boy yelps. "I didn't expect-"
"At ease, sir," Sengoku-san rumbles. Rosinante hasn't seen him doing that much. It's not something that he'd normally say to a civilian, but it does the trick, as the boy relaxes. "I'm off duty for today."
The boy pauses. Tilts his head. "Eh? I thought you didn't do that? Ever?"
Sengoku-san huffs, a tinge of amusement in it. "Oh, I agree," he concedes. "But this little one has changed a lot for me."
It's then that the boy finally notices the other presence standing next to Sengoku-san. Rosinante blinks up at him from behind his bangs, trying not to think about the familiar shock and unease clearly written on the other's face, staring down at a tiny, sickly looking child. He knows how he looks, he's used to it, but it still feels icky.
"…Huh," the boy murmurs. "Damn, okay."
Then, he shakes his head, a half-easy smile plastering itself onto his face. "Anyway! Do both you and your… son? Wanna try?"
Rosinante almost, almost shudders at that. His father is dead in the North Blue, not here. But, he doesn't call attention to it. Both of them nod- Sengoku-san slowly, and Rosinante hesitantly. There's not much conversation, after that: the boy sets up the game, a large wad of beri gets pressed into his hands (to which he enthusiastically fawns over it for half a minute until he remembers that there are other people around), and both of them are kitted with rings. While Rosinante has grown a lot since he arrived at Marineford, he still has to use a nearby step stool to gain enough height.
Sengoku-san experimentally shifts the colorful ring in his grasp, tilting it this way and that, as if he's inspecting it. He then spares a cursory glance to the array of brightly colored bottles, and suddenly, he throws it fast enough for it to almost blur. It hooks around a bottle near the middle with a satisfying clink, spinning around once, twice, thrice, before settling. The boy whistles, and Rosinante's eyes sparkle.
"Holy shhh—"
The boy's voice peters out the second his gaze lands on Rosinante again.
"—hhooot. Good shot. Great shot, even."
You can say shit, , Rosinante thinks to himself, unimpressed. Doffy’s already said worse. Mucho peor.
Sengoku-san does not preen at the praise, but the edges of his mouth do twitch up a little. He gestures for Rosinante to try with an encouraging nod, to which he preens at.
Zeroing in on the bottles, Rosinante tries to mimic the same gesture as Sengoku-san, inspecting the hoop, though not finding anything interesting about it. Then, with as much speed he can muster, he throws it—
—and it sails over the bottles entirely, ricocheting off the wall and then unceremoniously clattering to the floor.
All three of them stand there, for a bit. Staring dumbfounded at the complete failure. A wind might have passed behind them, carrying a few leaves; deafening in the silence.
Sengoku-san recovers first, however. He leans down, about to pat Rosinante on the shoulder as he speaks, his voice trying so hard to be placating.
"That was a nice try," he comforts. "Maybe try less strength next time, however. You're clearly underestimating—"
And that's when Rosinante finally recovers… and shows it by grabbing the rest of his rings and hurling them at the bottles, causing Sengoku-san to flinch and the boy to let out an undignified yelp. One by one, they leave his hand, and every time they miss completely. The final one comes close to it, but, in a spectacular feat of defiance, it bounces off of the bottle itself, toward the ceiling, and then finally sails right into his head, beaning him in the space between his eyes, with enough force to knock him back. Of course, the world is out to get him today, so when he tilts backward, the stool decides to give up on him too; tilting into a completely different direction and slipping out from underneath him. Rosinante promptly falls onto the cobblestone street in a tangle of his own ungainly limbs.
The pause doesn't last as long, this time. Sengoku-san and the boy, who had finally recovered from the events, stare down at him with the blankest, almost disappointed expressions, before the former sighs.
Finally seeming to give up, Sengoku-san pushes him upward and herds a seething, bruised Rosinante away from the stall, giving the stunned boy behind it a final sheepish look. Once they get far enough, he aims the same one at Rosinante and suggests- maybe another game? Perhaps you’ll win there!
And they do try!
…and then they try the next one.
And the next…
…and the next…
…and the next…
…and the next…
…until Rosinante sits at a table in the food court, sporting several more bruises, an egregiously blue bandaid covering a cut that had slashed through his cheek, after a dart had once again somehow bounced off of its target and back at him, and a considerably bruised ego. He sniffles loudly as he shovels leaf after leaf of cabbage into his mouth, paying no mind to the obnoxious crunching causing many other carnival goers nearby to shudder and stare.
Sengoku-san does look embarrassed to be there at all, but for his part, he tries to comfort his ward with a series of stilted pats on his back.
"I should've stopped the first time," he reflects, just a tiny bit regretful. "I just… did not expect you to become like that." He tilts his head. "Didn't know you had a temper, either."
Rosinante lets out a quiet growl against the cabbage, and swats at Sengoku-san's hand until he stops. With a quiet sigh- must be a record for today, almost- he leaves his seat and transfers to the one perpendicular to him. He doesn't speak afterward, so they lapse into a mostly awkward silence.
“When I heard about an Admiral of all things moving about, I certainly did not expect it to be you,” a scratchy voice interrupts it before it can get too awkward.
Both Rosinante and Sengoku-san pause at the voice, in fear and surprise respectively, but Sengoku-san quickly recovers. With a joy that’s rarely seen on him, he turns around and smiles at the newcomer.
“Oh, Tsuru!” He greets. “Quite a rare sight too. Are you having a fine day?”
Tsuru-san aims a tired look at him. “As much as I can be with a headache,” she grouses, rubbing her temples. “You know I hate these types of events. Too many people, too much going on at once.”
Sengoku-san sagely nods, face pinching in sympathy. “You’d think being on battlefields half of the time would desensitise you to it."
…Huh. Now that he thinks about it, Sengoku had never seemed happy to be at the festival, either. Every time they'd walked through the crowd, he'd always tensed. Gotten twitchy, like he expected something bad to happen. And sometimes his hands would spasm whenever something got too loud.
Tsuru-san crosses the distance between them, and Sengoku-san moves to give her space on the bench as if it’s as easy as breathing. Giving what might be a grateful look- Rosinante doesn’t know how to read her much, yet- she sits down, huffing. Sengoku-san immediately pushes his own tea her way, and Tsuru-san answers by quickly lifting it to her mouth and chugging it like it’s a vodka shot.
Rosinante watches the way they interact, mesmerised. He’s known from the moment he arrived at Marineford that Sengoku-san had two very close friends. But he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get used to how easily they accommodate for each other’s presences any time soon. Sengoku-san had ordered hibiscus tea from a stand instead of his original, favored green tea- had he been anticipating Tsuru being around either way, or had he simply bought it because it was her favorite, and he wanted to keep something associated with her nearby? And, in the brief minute since she’d appeared, something in her posture had loosened, almost imperceptibly. She must have been tense before, but now, she almost seemed… relaxed.
(Traitorously, his mind flashes to his parents. Mamma and Tata had been just like that; they might as well have been the one who knew the most of the other in the entire world. Whenever Tata had gotten absorbed in a book in the manor’s library, she had always given him a tray of tea, smoked salmon and caviar- his favorite foods, and knew just how to bring him out of the trance. In turn, Tata had always kept track of astronomical events, zealously noting them in his calendar he could always surprise her with them. The holy land had always given them the best view of it, and Mamma had always enjoyed every second of it.
Though, Tsuru-san and Sengoku-san didn’t seem to be involved in that way. He’s not even sure if either of them are even interested in that sort of stuff.
…he’s not even sure if he is, either. He doesn't know much about romance at all.)
"I presume this is the culprit, then?" Tsuru-san suddenly pipes up, and Rosinante realises that second that he got lost in thought, and that Tsuru's staring at him, piercing navy blue eyes studying him. "About time you brought him out."
Rosinante gives her a stilted wave, trying his very best to hide most of his face behind what's left of the cabbage. Tsuru-san primly waves back.
"It's nice to see you again, Rosinante-kun," she says, a hint of warmth in her voice.
He nods, peeking out at her from behind his bangs. She had always been nice, the few times they've met before, had even been given some sour candy that he'd loved, but…
…there was always a chance that she'd turn out just like everyone else, back then. Angry, hunting him down. He doesn't think he can go through that again. (He doesn't know if he could take it.)
Luckily, Tsuru-san moves her gaze back to Sengoku-san, and the pressure lifts. "I heard Garp is around, too. Last time I checked, he was dragging that brand new pupil of his into every game under the sun. I'm surprised he hasn't migrated here to the food court yet."
Sengoku-san rubs his temples in a scarily accurate mimic of what Tsuru-san had done before. "Of course… how much property damage has he caused already?"
"Only three stalls in a row," Tsuru-san relays. "Seems like he got too excited again."
"Typical," Sengoku-san gripes. A breath that might have been amused passes out of Tsuru-san's nose.
Companionable silence passes over them, for a bit. Rosinante keeps eating his cabbage while Sengoku-san produces a bag of okaki from the depths of his coat. He holds them out to Tsuru-san, who looks at him like he’d slapped him in the face, but Sengoku-san just shrugs and eats them like he expected the reaction. Tsuru-san sighs… then she seems to get lost in thought for a second.
"So,” she finally speaks, “how's the god in your brain?"
The what—
"Ah, he hasn't spoken to me since God Valley," Sengoku-san admits, like it's a completely normal topic to talk about, que? "It's… mostly the usual, however. An everpresent pressure in the back of my mind. It feels like he's judging me."
"Have you ever considered not being an idiot?" Tsuru-san shoots back, in the most deadpan tone ever. "Maybe then you might be able to have a civil conversation with him."
Sengoku-san sputters, but Rosinante isn't able to process that or the topic at hand, when a long, drawn-out screeching noise suddenly blares from somewhere nearby. A collective flinch passes over the entire food court, caught off guard by the noise. Then, it morphs into something else, and… that's music? Very intense music with instruments Rosinante has never heard before. Sengoku-san and Tsuru-san, while still taking much longer to relax than the rest of the crowd, realise it too. Sengoku-san coughs into his fist, unsettled, and Tsuru-san pinches her brow and her eyes shut, looking more tired than ever.
"Couldn't they have turned the amplifier to a lower setting?" Sengoku-san mutters. "I'm not surprised if someone went deaf from that."
Tsuru-san lets out an unintelligible, vaguely irritated and vaguely agreeing sound. As she opens her eyes, they land on Rosinante, and surprisingly, they widen.
"Rosinante-kun?" Tsuru-san prompts. "You're looking awfully pale."
Is he? He can't see, everything's a bit blurry, and he feels clammy and cold and warm all at once, and he can't quite hold onto the cabbage anymore with how much his hand is shaking, his entire body is shaking, there's a persistent droning noise in his ears and he can't breathe—
Someone grabs his wrist, and he yanks himself out of the grip with as much strength as he can manage. His head hits the pavement, but his body doesn't register any pain, too occupied with his racing heart (racing like the footsteps of jeering strangers with foreign tongues and foreign weapons, shattering their bottles over his head and spilling the contents over already opened and burning wounds—) to even care. A voice tries to talk to him, concerned and gentle and everything he should try to latch onto, but there's laughter in his ears and in his mind and now it sounds like them again, standing over his and his brother's bloody, half-dead corpse and saying things that he'd only understand months later like filthy rats, the world's gonna be so much better when they're dead in the fucking ground—
—he needs to leave. He needs to leave now.
The distant voice rises to a higher pitch when Rosinante suddenly pulls himself from the ground and runs, footsteps hammering into the concrete in time with his rabbit-quick heart. His stomach turns and he feels like he's gonna hurl every time his blurry eyesight catches sight of a human silhouette. They're all being so loud, even louder than his hyperventilating and beating heart and that droning, why can't they stop? Why can't they be silent?
And for a brief moment, one that he cannot register beyond the panic, a thin violet film, nearly invisible, spreads from him, and the hustle and bustle of the crowd slowly starts fading away. Fading, fading, fading, just like his awareness until he's running completely blind.
Until he doesn't register the fence in his path, before his foot catches on an uneven divot in the ground he and he falls face first into it.
The bones in his nose shatter with a loud crunch, and with it, sound filters in again before he notices that it was gone. Finally, he's able to register something than pure panic, and he doesn't even get to relax because now his head hurts. Blindly fumbling, he manages to grab onto the fence he'd ran into and pull himself through the gap, landing on the lumpy straw that covers the area as he fights to remember the breathing exercises that Tsuru-san had taught him during one of her earlier visits. In for four, pause for three, out for seven. It takes a few tries, but soon, he's able to calm his breathing to a level where he doesn't feel like passing out. Blood lethargically spills from between the fingers he's covered his nose with, but the pain, while still aching and distracting, is manageable.
Once he feels like he's not gonna scream the second he moves, he opens his eyes, and he's surprised to find that that there's something staring down at him.
Rosinante stares up at an odd, horned creature.
A goat stares back.
Its beady, straw-yellow eyes regard him curiously (or maybe with no thoughts in its brain), like it had never seen a human before. That makes sense. It looks like a baby, after all. Small and scrawny, like a breeze would kill it. One of the Saints had owned goats back there, wanting an “exotic” pet to take care of. Rosinante had snuck over to feed them a few times, sometimes dragging Doffy with him. They’d always looked so small, ribs sticking out of their short furs. Many of them kept disappearing, too.
He rolls onto his stomach and quickly pulls himself up. The goat startles back, but Rosinante is heedless of the fear. Eyes sparkling, he reaches forward, prepared to pet it just like he’d done with the older one.
And it's teeth promptly clamp themselves down onto his fingers.
Rosinante’s mouth opens to scream, but the most he gets out is a few crackly whines dying in his throat. Grabbing hold of the baby goat’s horns, he tries to yank his hand out, pulling on it and slapping its head to no effect, until it finally lets go. The added momentum he gets sends him falling flat on his back, but this time he pulls himself up immediately.
How dare it? his thoughts hiss, and this time, scarily, it's his own voice. How dare it bite me when I was just trying to pet it? So mean, so mean, so mean, I need to- I need to…
…do nothing at all.
His hand… doesn’t exactly hurt. It stings, yes, but the goat's teeth had probably grown in very recently, as it didn't have much strength in its bite. He's been in much worse pain, too, having a dozen small scars to show for it. (The rope burns still itch, sometimes.)
Watching the little goat, he realises it doesn't look hostile at all. It's tense, low posture isn't preparing to fight; it's preparing to run. Nothing in those square pupils betray any form of anger. It's just… it's just a kid. A scared and lonely little kid that's been thrown into an unfamiliar environment and constantly met with unfamiliar people…
…just like him.
His anger replaces itself with bone-deep shame. Face crinkling into sympathy with the realization, he tries to remove any threatening quality of his posture, lowering himself down into a crouch. While the baby goat doesn't rise from its huddled position, it untenses, somewhat.
He thumbs at the flap on his overalls for a moment, then retrieves his notebook and pen from it. The blood coating his hand has long since dried, so there's no hindrance when he quickly pens a message on an empty page and rips it out to show it to the goat.
Lo siento, it reads.
The goat doesn't reply, of course. It probably doesn't understand the language, but it's much easier to write than those weird letters Sengoku-san's been trying to teach him!
Retrieving it, he writes another sentence.
Eres muy lindo. (He makes sure to underline the second word a few times. For emphasis.)
This time, the goat slowly, hesitantly, moves forward. It sniffs curiously at the note, its nose pressing into the paper and causing it to shift. Then, it reaches over, slowly, slowly, slowly, and then suddenly bites into the paper too, ripping it from Rosinante's hands. A startled snort escapes him, and he watches in wonder as it methodically chews. The monotony of the action calms him, somewhat, lulling the remnants of anxiety in his body. Huh, maybe it's been hungry for a bit.
Wait! He could do something about that!
He puts his hands up, mouthing an "I'll be back" to the goat, before he stands up again and makes his way out of the pen. It takes a few minutes, but despite a few falls, scaring an entire group of festivalgoers by walking straight through their huddle (they should've stood to the side instead! They're blocking the way!), and a half-heated silent discussion with one of the stall owners, he manages his way back no problem. The goat is still there when he arrives, luckily, and it tilts its head in a concernedly human gesture when he climbs over the fence again (this time only stumbling a bit when he's on the other side of the grass.)
Back in front of it, Rosinante finally reveals his impromptu haul: an entire head of lettuce. The baby goat immediately sticks its nose into it, snuffling loudly, and a breath that might have been a laugh hisses through Rosinante's teeth. (He doesn't smile; not a twitch of his lips to be seen. He hasn't smiled for months. He doesn't know if he's gonna be able to do it ever again.)
The baby goat settles down, now chewing on a leaf of lettuce that it had managed to secure, and Rosinante follows it down. After a moment of hesitation, he raises his hand and places it on its head, and fortunately it doesn't try to bite him this time; instead leaning into the touch as it chews, letting out a series of muffled grunts.
He watches it eat, eyes crinkling with contentment… and then he focuses his gaze on the slowly disappearing leaf.
Then at the head of lettuce.
And promptly stuffs some of it into his mouth.
Delicious.
And that's how they spend the next few minutes, sharing the bundle between themselves. The crowd passes by no problem, though the odd pair gets a few weird looks when noticed. Rosinante finds that, surprisingly, he doesn't care; too caught up in the joy of companionship to process that there's anyone around him. It does wonders to his ever-present anxiety.
Eventually, the momentary peace is broken. Rosinante watched as Sengoku-san barrels through the crowd, wind-swept afro recognizable even without the height. He seems to be in a panic- something that becomes irrevocably present when his wild eyes pass over the pen and subsequently notices a familiar shock of blonde hair.
"ROSINANTE!" Sengoku-san yells, dashing over and jumping over the fence in one big leap. "Rosinante," he repeats once he's in front of him, hands outstretched like he wants to grab him.
Rosinante gives him a curt wave with his free hand, still chewing. This brings attention to his face, and he's not even sure how Sengoku-san manages to look even more frazzled than before, but he somehow does. Suddenly, Rosinante does get grabbed, and his head whips this way and that as Sengoku-san presses a napkin to his nose, wiping away the dried blood.
"What happened to you?" He sputters. "You freak out over nothing and disappear before we can do anything! And you bust your nose while you're at it!" Sengoku-san tuts, ignoring Rosinante's attempts at swatting his hands away. "Seriously, what am I gonna do with you? I—"
It's then that Sengoku-san's jostling finally seems to aggravate the baby goat, as it lets out an angry bleat and headbutts the man's leg. Obviously, it doesn't do anything- Rosinante has seen him tank one of Garp's punches with only minor damage- but it's enough to alert him to the additional presence.
"Wh-"
Sengoku-san blinks.
"You ended up in the petting zoo," he realizes, then sighs. "Of course." He glances around. "Is this the only animal they have, though? That's odd."
Rosinante shrugs, still petting the goat. It's back to eating now that the disturbance is gone, leaning into the ministrations.
Sengoku-san shakes his head. "Alright then," he murmurs. "I think it's about time we leave, hm? You've been out for long enough."
He tries to nudge Rosinante into a standing position… and blinks when he immediately refuses to comply. His arm snakes around the goat the first time, and the second, he stubbornly clings to it, eliciting another bleat of complaint. On the third and final try, Sengoku-san has to pry him off of it and step back a bit, only for Rosinante to immediately return to its side and hug its neck the second he's back on his own two feet.
"Boy—" he begins, and Rosinante immediately tenses up at the tone, the anger. But Sengoku-san quickly notices it, and there's a brief flash of regret in his eyes, before it fades, and any tension leaves his body with a deep breath. Rosinante relaxes.
It's then that Tsuru-san joins them again. She does not look as panicked as Sengoku-san was before as she walks out of the crowd, but she visibly relaxes either way as she sees the two. Sengoku-san turns and stares at her, and there's this look in his eyes that almost seem pleading.
By the analytical glance at the two kids, and the roll of her eyes, she is not gonna be helpful.
"You'd be cruel to separate them now, old friend," Tsuru says, a small smile on her face. "I think Rosinante's gone and gotten attached to the little one."
Sengoku-san's face immediately falls. He gazes at Tsuru, then at Rosinante… and then he finally seems to accept his fate.
"Rosinante?" Sengoku-san prompts, much softer than before. "Are you sure?"
Rosinante does not look at him. Instead, he looks at the goat. It doesn't seem to have registered that it's being talked about, but the moment he turns to it, it meets his gaze. It blinks at him placidly, straw-yellow eyes borrowing into him, and then it's suddenly in his face, a bleat escaping it as it nuzzles into his cheek and drags its slobbering tongue across his face. Rosinante almost shrieks at the sensation- Dragons, it tickles!- but what escapes instead is a series of quiet, soft hisses just left of being an actual laugh. Beyond his attention, both Tsuru and Sengoku-san soften, watching the scene unfold with growing fondness.
"Alright, then," Sengoku-san repeats. "I'll have to ask the owner if I could take this one off of their hands."
He stands up, mechanically dusting his pants. Rosinante does not join him, but the onslaught has ceased, so he's free to look up at him. The goat does the same, mirroring him. "But first: have you thought of a name for it?"
Rosinante thinks for a moment. A very long moment, that almost crosses into awkwardness, before it finally clicks. He grabs his notebook from where it was discarded on the grass, steadies his pen, and slowly etches out the kanji for—
"Yagi?” Sengoku reads out loud.
Pauses.
"Are you naming it goat?”
Rosinante nods, dead serious. It makes the most sense, at least to him.
…Sengoku-san stares at him with such a blank look that Tsuru has to turn around and stifle a chuckle with her hand. He shoots a glare at her, though it doesn’t do much than make it harder for her to stay calm.
"Yagi it is," he wearily accepts.
== ❤️ ==
"Quite an odd pair, those two," Tsuru remarks over a cup of herbal tea. "A human child and a goat. But then again, I've seen weirder things in my life."
Sengoku absently hums, only barely hearing what Tsuru had said. Instead, he's completely focused on the aforementioned duo; beyond the open door to his bedroom, Rosinante sits on the bed and reads- or rather, lip-syncs- through the Dressrosan story book he'd been promise, to the newly-christened Yagi. He's littered with prominent injuries, and his nose can barely be spotted from the bandage wrapped around it… but for the first time since they'd even met, he looks…
…he looks happy.
Healthy, almost, in a way a consistent diet and a safe environment could only barely help.
"You were worried about him, weren't you?" Tsuru suddenly asks, and Sengoku almost, almost jumps as he whips to look at her, bewildered… and then resigned. Damn it all.
Not for the first time, Sengoku curses that keen eye of hers. While he was by far the most analytical one of their makeshift trio- there was a reason why mission successes were sky high under his jurisdiction and planning, after all- Tsuru had always had a knack for emotions. Reading her allies and opponents with startling ease, and then vigorously cleaning them. For as long as they've known each other, she had easily weathered through his and Garp's grievances and squabbles, petty or otherwise, being able to get to the core of their argument in seconds flat and then setting it (and their backs…) straight.
She is not a gentle person, however. She's never been,In a group like theirs, an environment like theirs, an organisation like theirs, gentleness isn't something that could survive. Their years of service for the Marines have carved any capability for tenderness out of their hearts, and they're not about to mourn that any time soon. (They don't have time.)
(…He's missed her. He's missed her a lot. The last time they had talked like this, outside of meetings or brief conversations on duty, was almost eight years ago.)
"How could I not?" Sengoku asks, in lieu of confirming it outright. "He never talked to anyone. Never interacted with anyone that didn't outright walk up to him, including you and Garp." He huffs. "He felt like a ghost, almost; hard to perceive, hard to know if he's real. Do you know how many civilians had never known he'd existed before that day? And… he never seemed to care. Never felt anything. Kept getting defensive over nothing. The boy I had only just gotten to know withdrew into a shell and I wasn’t able to get him back.”
Tsuru does not answer. Sengoku doesn't ask for one.
"But now…"
Rosinante seems to finally notice the stares. Blood red eyes gaze at them from behind honey blond bangs, and for the first time, there's a shine in them. A sign of life and vitality and joy. It's a fleeting, ephemeral thing, gone with the next second when Rosinante turns back to his book and goat, but it almost makes the atmosphere so much brighter all the same.
"Now I feel like I shouldn't have worried at all," Sengoku says. "I just feel happy." He moves to stare up at the ceiling. "I know that, with my status, I shouldn't be this invested in the life of a boy I've only known for a few months, but… here we are."
Tsuru observes him, for a moment. Then, she sighs, and the smallest smile appears on her face.
"You'll get it someday, Sengoku," she ominously promises. "Just you wait."
"Now what do you mean by that—"