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Chapter Text

The boy hardly sleeps that first month. He is sallow and swollen-eyed from crying, and clings to Sengoku's pant leg like it's the only thing keeping him upright. The cuticles of his nails have been chewed to the bed. He picks at his food, even though Sengoku has offered every dish imaginable and he can't believe the boy isn't hungry given the protruding angles of his shoulders and ribs.

He seems to hate the Marine Headquarters, ducking behind Sengoku's shadow whenever someone tries to greet him, no matter how unassuming (or assuming in Garp's case) the men try to be. In the office, Rosinante sits in a corner of the room or on the couch or wherever he's asked to go and stares at the wall.

Sengoku is honestly at a loss. Thirty years of naval service are rendered embarrassingly impotent when faced with this child, who looks like he will never smile or laugh or be happy again.

"Think a little more with your head," Tsuru says one afternoon, finally tossing him a bone, "He can't possibly be at ease considering what he's gone through and the things he must have seen. How is all the daily havoc around here supposed to make such a child feel safe?"

It's terribly plain when she puts it that way, though Tsuru has always had a knack for disentangling the crooked wefts of life and giving it to people straight. Sengoku spends the rest of that day pondering ideas, the boy a soft breathing lump beneath his overcoat. He throws out a lot of them, before eventually, a suitable one comes along.

He brings Rosinante to his uncle's old farm, a humble piece of land in a remote corner of the Sabaody Archipelago. Out of the past four generations, the man had been the only one to buck tradition and leave the Marines. Sengoku had spent almost every summer break with him, collecting wood or watering crops, gorging himself on cream-coated milk and ripened plums. His uncle hadn't cared in the least for posture and expectations, and for three months he would run through the mud, climb trees, slouch, explore his fill and be whoever he wanted to be. To him, there had been no safer place in the world.

He hopes Rosinante might feel the same.

"It's a bit smaller than before," he says, as they hike up the trail, the child nestled in the crook of his arm, "I didn't have enough time to run a full-scale operation, but all the good stuff's still here. I've got a couple hands coming around every day to help keep things running. They might have already left though. It's almost late noon, the work doesn't take that long." Sengoku realizes he's blathering. Whether it's due to fatigue from the trip or the fact that Rosinante has actually cast more than a single listless glance about him, Sengoku isn't sure.

He takes the boy on a tour, showing him the paddy fields and orchards, the chicken coop with the proud, sauntering rooster. Rosinante sits up a little. He's never seen a live chicken up close. ("Only the bones," he murmurs and Sengoku tries not to stiffen too noticeably.)

It is the pasture with the small herd of goats that he seems to enjoy best. Sengoku is surprised to find the caretaker, Mai, still there. She is a mother of two children herself and her eyes light up at Rosinante, who manages to at least shake her hand before drawing back in shyness. In hindsight, Sengoku never did explain to her where Rosinante had come from, but he will wonder if she had figured a bit of it out all the same.

"Today's a lucky day," she says, before glancing up at Sengoku, "One of the mama goats had triplets this morning."

Sengoku is stunned, though he supposes that explains why she's still here. Mai's look at him is wry, before she returns her gaze to Rosinante, who's lifted his head, a flash of curiosity welling up in his features.

"Babies're in the field now," she says and offers her hand, "Wanna go see?"

Rosinante glances at it in obvious interest, but doesn't budge until Sengoku makes a point of following behind.

Like any infant creature, the kids are undeniably charming. Two of them are suckling from their grazing mother, their coats the same swiss-marked pattern as hers, dark body and tan legs.

"Left one's name is Coco. Her sister on the right's Cookie," Mai says, leaning against the fence where Sengoku has set Rosinante down on, "Cute?"

Rosinante nods. A very faint smile curves on his mouth and Sengoku's heart goes leaping far higher than it should. He's wearing a giant grin of his own when he ruffles the child's hair, earning himself an owlish blink, before he turns back to the farmhand.

"They were triplets right? Where's the third one?"

To his confusion, Mai's expression slightly falls, garnering a troubled light. "Well..." she says.

Unlike his siblings, the third kid sports a white coat, pure and sparkling as snow. He's every bit as bouncy and energetic as his sisters, but is smaller. Much, much smaller. The problem is apparent already and Sengoku only has it confirmed when Mai sets the kid down in the pasture and his mother clicks away from him with barely a glance. The baby tries again, struggling to catch up with his siblings who bound after her effortlessly. The doe trots off further, faster, and several failed attempts later, the kid lies down and doesn't try again. His chest is heaving when Mai brings him back from the field.

"'ve tried everything." She sighs. "Abandoned, this one."

Rosinante releases Sengoku's sleeve and edges forward. There's distress in his eyes as he reaches out to stroke the kid's neck - small, gentle strokes that has the baby cocking its head at him.

"Abandoned?" Rosinante whispers and Sengoku wonders if he'd even meant to say the word out loud. Mai looks at him, a little concerned. A little like she understands.

Rosinante names the baby goat, Yuki. For the three weeks Sengoku is able to take leave, Mai comes around and stays late every day, teaching Rosinante how to care for the delicate creature. The boy listens with rapt attention, with near fire in his eyes, determined to learn the correct way to hold, to feed, to play, to love. Sengoku has to make a point of reining him in a little. It's commendable, such devotion, but...

"You don't have to be so careful," he says, helping the boy tie a ribbon and bell around Yuki's neck, "You don't have to get it all right. Love him and he'll meet you halfway."

Rosinante looks down, hands sliding off Yuki's back to wring in his own shirt.

"Will he?"

"Of course, son. He loves you too after all."

Rosinante's chin wobbles. Tears well in his eyes. Another beat passes, before he nods, hair low. Sengoku's brow crumples. He wishes Rosinante would just bawl like a normal child. The boy is mightily proficient in that soft kind of weeping--pained and suppressed, complimentary with tiny gulps that threaten to rattle his frail body out of its seams. The kind that fucking rips Sengoku's heart out and shoves it in sideways. He says nothing more. He doesn't try to puzzle out what happened.

He just reaches over and hugs the boy, the little hands latching on instantly. Rosinante, he realizes, holds to him sometimes like he's drowning.

Yuki trots over and licks the salt from the boy's cheek.

Sengoku knows they can't stay any longer when Kuzan of all people calls, half complaining and half imploring him to return to Marineford. Both Garp and Tsuru are terrifying substitute supervisors, which is hardly news, but the effect has magnified beneath the constant requirement of their presences.

He sighs as he hangs up. He does have his obligations. His duties.

And the boy is eating now. He's gained at least one or two pounds, some color in his cheeks and has taken to wandering around the farm on his own, Yuki at his side. He laughs more. He smiles. Perhaps he's ready.

Mai shoves a collar and leash into Sengoku's hand the evening before they go. "Take Yuki," she says.

On a golden dawn, they say farewell to Mai, Rosinante blushing fiercely as he thanks her for everything. Mai kneels down and hugs him, kissing the crown of his head.

"You are so good, little heart," she says, "So brave."

Rosinante stares at her and then at his shoes. His hands latch onto Sengoku's coat again as he's lifted, Yuki trilling as he's looped up too. Child in one arm and goat in the other, Sengoku figures they'll make a sight at the station, but it doesn't matter.

Just like how it doesn't matter where they'll manage to house a goat at headquarters. They can pen off a section of the courtyard, he supposes, or his office. The men can think of it as a mascot or a symbol, whatever suited them. Garp would find it too funny. Tsuru would not be pleased. They would understand when he told them it was for Rosinante.

As they walk down the trail, the child squirms around to look over Sengoku's shoulder, waving shyly back at Mai. He presses the curve of his head against Sengoku's nape.

"Thank you, Sengoku-san," he says, so softly he almost misses it.

Sengoku leans his cheek against the downy mop of hair. "Anytime, son." He wanders through the train station after without feeling any of the stares, without noticing when Yuki starts nibbling on the edge of his sleeve. His heart, old and aching as it is, pools somewhere near his bones.

Chapter Text

Rosinante does not really know the power of a Devil Fruit until his first time out at sea. Oh, he's heard about them and read about them, is aware that nearly all of the upper ranked officials have skills borne of them.

But there's an uncompromising line between the knowledge of something and the knowing of something and Rosinante, after the wild thunder of his heart and the prickle of his flesh have somewhat subsided, realizes just where he stands upon that line.

"You're staring," Vice Admiral Kuzan scratches the back of his head. "Is there something on my face?"

Perhaps it's a trick question. Ice fractals rim the man's towering body, crawling across the contours of his neck, his hair, one ear, the bridge of his nose. Rosinante's breath puffs out as fine white clouds, but Kuzan's had been a misty stream, swirling and crackling and sub-zero, caging everything in hard blue. It must stretch for miles, the gleaming ice, advancing inland like an implacable army. The cold is plunging and absurd and has warped the metal helm of the ship.

"I didn't know."

"Hm?"

"You, sir," Rosinante swivels in a half-circle. "That you could...do all this."

Kuzan's sluggish eyes - always half-asleep, always intimidating - rouse a mite. "Oh. Well, it's just my fruit's little specialty. What I'm good for."

"It's amazing, sir." Rosinante cranes his head at the mountainside behind them, how the sun refracts off the crystallized ridges. "Like magic."

Kuzan stares. He makes a pensive noise, as if there's something to mull over about the words. At the shoreline, giant Vice Admiral Lacroix curses Kuzan's mother and his birth and everything in between, having been forced to bodily rip the ship out of the ice's path. He's checking over every marine for frostbite and his voice booms through the island as he calls for Rosinante.

It knocks him out of his reverie and certainly off his feet. Rosinante scrambles back up, in the present again, delivers a flustered salute and excuses himself. He's turned toward the shore when Kuzan suddenly grabs his shoulder, hand no colder than the flesh of a normal man, and spins him around again.

"Don't call it that," the vice admiral says, throwing an arm in gesture behind them, at the ravaged trees, the split rocks, the wither and death, "This, kid, is just destruction. Force without direction. It breaks what it touches, nothing special about that. Don't call it magic. You understand?"

Slightly frightened, Rosinante nods. "I do, sir."

"Good." Kuzan brings in a closed fist, gathers ice beneath the curled fingers in a pale ream of frost. "Because this is magic."

His hand opens and in it sits a miniature bird, shining and clear, carved like crystal out of the ice. Rosinante's only a week past fifteen, hardly able to help how his mouth parts with awe.

Maybe with a shade of amusement, Kuzan offers the figurine, only nodding when Rosinante asks hurriedly if he's sure, brick-dust eyes lighting up.

"Thank you," he says and will say, repeatedly for the rest of the mission.

And Kuzan's mouth, that ever flat and bored line, lifts just a bit at the edges.

Chapter Text

Burgundy locks and shaved scalp. Quirked lips and cobalt eyes. The breeze in the courtyard sifting through her coat, making it sway (Justice, Justice), spilling mischief from the pockets. Swindled cigarettes and hustled sticks of gum. Clementines plucked from Sengoku's altar.

She swears like a sailor and crouches down in the grass, gathers them together in furtive sweeps. He picks up the little orange that has rolled to his boot and offers it back dumbly, even though he's sat through more of Sengoku's rants about thievery than he can count, even though she eyes him like he's sporting an extra head or three.

"Thanks," she says, minute-pause, fingers brushing upon his as she takes the fruit back, "The cadet from last spring right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and tries to clack his heels and raise a hand in salute. Try being the key word here. A second later, he's stammering apologies, having almost taken out his own eye, then tripped and nearly fallen on top of her. The ever-plague of his clumsiness has become the bane of headquarters for rookies and superiors alike. In his wryer moments, Sengoku enjoys commenting on this unprecedented camaraderie.

But she merely shores him up as if he weighs nothing, pats the imaginary dust from his uniform. She (saw the lamb in him, as Vice Admiral Tsuru would say later) smiles and her teeth are pretty and white, slightly crooked along the top.

"Our secret okay?" she says, and sets the stolen clementine back into his palm, folding his long fingers over it. Her voice is soft. Coyly amused. The thud-thud of his own heart is against his ears.

"I'm Rosinante," he says, as if it's an apt reply and blushes enough to hemorrhage when he realizes it isn't.

She laughs. Nose crinkled and the sound lighter than air. Clearer and truer than morning. She splays a hand over her collarbone, the hollow spot above her heart.

"Bellemere."

For a captain, her speech is invariably loose. She brushes aside formality as if it's a burden or an obstacle in her way.

"At ease, cadet," she drawls, after throwing an arm over his shoulder and making him yelp and sit upright. She grins when her feet dangle an inch off the floor, head tilting to the side. "You know, Rosinante, I heard about you while I was out at sea."

He blinks, a flutter of unease in his belly. "...You have, ma'am?"

"Sure, 1746." She pokes his cheek. "Sengoku's boy. Have to admit I never thought the old codger would have kids. You don't look a thing like him."

Rosinante blushes again, partly because he's never heard anyone refer to the Fleet Admiral as 'old codger' and partly because the curve of her breasts are squashed against his spine. "O-Oh, I'm not...he took me in, that's all, I'm not..." He clears his throat, draining the muddle of unnecessary words. "I'm not his son."

"But he is your father?"

Rosinante stares at her, but Bellemere looks back like it's the most sensible question in the world.

"...No," he hesitates and then, "My father's dead."

She frowns and very suddenly releases him. Her eyes are hard, akin to flint, and there's reproach in them, like he's answered wrong somehow, some way, much to his alarm.

Bellemere smokes through packs per week and can drink crowds of men under the table. Her temper unfurls like the sting of a whipcord. She's horrendous with money, addicted to gambling. She's a little miserable and plenty alone. Sengoku tells Rosinante not to pay too much attention. He thinks as far as influences go, Bellemere's about as horrible as they come.

Rosinante knows very well how untrue that is.

At seventeen, he's not a blank canvas anymore, colors splattered and dried, frame ripped at every edge. The picture of how things will be is taking shape now and though it is a gray and lifeless picture and not the one he wants, it is the one he sees.

Bellemere splashes across it tones of rouge and scarlet, creams and oranges like the clementines she adores. She does so without apology, a wicked glint in her smile. Hers is of confidence and pride. She is full of pain and has the most lost eyes and it's so familiar, so old and because of that, it hurts, but Rosinante is drawn in helplessly.

She kisses him the first time he passes his firearms training. She's been teaching him, hand on waist, steadying the elbow because she can't reach his shoulder. She's realized that he just lacks the coordination for the standard-issue Marine rifle and has him trade it in for a flintlock instead.

After every target is left smoldering with bullseyes and even the examiner has whistled in awe, she gestures for him to lean down. It's fleeting, barely two seconds, but enough for him to register the heat of her lips, the blossom smells of her hair.

"Not bad, cadet," she says and slips off before his fellow rookies are leaping at him, whooping with glee.

He's nineteen when she shows him how to make love. The two of them are honestly not so far apart in age, three years at the most, though those three years may as well have been a lifetime.

Rosinante is a blonde mountain of nerves and sweat. He is afraid of every little thing, that he'll hurt her or crush her, that he's too heavy and big. Bellemere guides him along, amused and fond and impatient all at once. She moves between the sheets the same way she fights, like an acrobat, complete flexibility and grace. The coarseness of her palms does not apply to the underside of her arms or the rim of her hips, which are as smooth as summer petals.

"So sweet," she says, loose hair dragging along his chest. She says it over and over, like the words make him in turns endearing and boggling. Only later in the night would he hear about the abuse, the running away, the homelessness and tricks on the street. He is learning that suffering is not selective, not exclusive, not gated to that little corner island of the North Blue where his family shattered and died.

"Not a fun story, I know." She folds her arms behind her head. "Just a scuffed up old thing I am."

"You're not old, ma'am."

She snorts. "I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you," he says, even though he's his father's son and he does, just a little bit, "How did you end up a marine?"

Bellemere's smile is faint. "My hometown, when I eventually made it back. The folk there, the mayor, they picked me up and set me straight. Said I ought to go make something of my life. I don't think the Marines was what they had in mind, but..." She chuckles, breath tickling his bicep. "Sometimes, Rosinante, family isn't the same as blood. Sometimes, they are as far apart as you can imagine them to be."

Her voice gains strength as she speaks. He feels her lift her head in the dark, pointed chin resting on his shoulder. "But you probably don't know what I mean, do you? Your parents...they sounded lovely. Wonderful. They could never have failed you."

And they hadn't. Rosinante still believes that without question. Even though he does indeed know what she means.

Rosinante makes Marine Commander at twenty-two. He is leaving for the North Blue, despite Sengoku's attempts to convince him otherwise, despite Tsuru's soft and heavy warnings. He is not ready, not ready at all, but he is still leaving.

Bellemere waits with him at the pier. They smoke and watch the sunset. It's a peaceful, companionable silence, and even though he doubts she knows what his mission entails, her expression is impossibly calm.

Rosinante grapples with the words to say. He feels he owes her an explanation.

"My parents never failed me," he starts, stops, continues, "My parents never failed me but...but I was failed, once upon a time."

Bellemere takes another drag of her cigarette. She looks at him with soft eyes, radiant and unbelievable eyes and he blurts, "I have a brother."

"I know," she says, without letting him finish and who knows how long she's known too. Long enough at least that she's aware he couldn't have gone on with that sentence anyway. Rosinante's chest twists as the boat arrives. His heart aches in places that he's almost forgotten were there, that have not been visited since he was eight years old.

Bellemere stands up and tosses her cigarette into the sea. She smiles and squeezes Rosinante's arm, says she's proud and wishes him luck. Then she moves to let go and he realizes he does not want this to be how it ends.

It's the first, last and only time he takes her by surprise. Bellemere's gasp is sealed beneath his lips, as his arm winds about the dip of her back, his other hand cupping her face, fingers gentle against the shape of her skull.

"You're beautiful, ma'am," he says once they part, breathless, because he's never told her and it's so true, so unfathomably and deeply true and it's a chronic problem of Rosinante's - this inability to spit out the truth, even if it's what needs to be heard.

Bellemere laughs and reaches up, brushing the bangs out of his eyes. The tips of her lashes are wet and glittering.

"I'll be seeing you again, cadet," she rasps, with unflinching certainty, as iron-clad as a promise, "I will. Is that understood?"

Rosinante nods.

"Understood."

Then he pulls her close, inhaling her scent one final time, trying to commit it to memory.

Chapter Text

A drunkard wandered into town in the last year. His coat a tarp of holes, his peppered hair a wiry nest. Beneath a long filthy red scarf, he hid his papery skin, thin and yellowed with jaundice.

He was always hacking, leaving globs of phlegm behind as he swayed through the alleys. Puke and vodka comprised his stench and cemented the memory of him in Rosinante for years to come. That smell. Those fists.

He seemed to take particular amusement in finding and beating them. Rosinante remembered sitting petrified at those unsteady footfalls, remembered his brother reacting instantly and dragging him by the arm, stuffing him into some narrow crevice behind a barrel or dumpster. There was never enough room, the two of them flattened against each other, knees braced against ribs. Doffy's burning hand covered his mouth, nails bruising into flesh.

"Stay still," his brother hissed in the dark, "Stay still."

He visits Loguetown in the summer, one month shy of his sixteenth birthday. Vice Admiral Garp has gathered all the new cadets for this venture—a "field trip" he says. A covert one Sengoku does not need to know about. Rosinante isn't sure what a "covert field trip" is suppose to be, but gets herded into packing his bag and hustling out with his peers at the crack of dawn.

Captain Bellemere has somehow dragged herself out of bed. She slaps his back on the way to the skiff's boarding ramp and says she'll be expecting details later.

"You're going to Loguetown, cadet. Haven't you heard the rumors?"

She shakes her head in tragedy when he stares at her. Rosinante supposes he hasn't been paying much attention to the rest of the world lately. Or maybe he never really had, so fixated was he on the sole region that meant anything to him.

Bellemere sighs, giving him a resigned smile. "I guess it's just as well, isn't it? You'll find out soon."

Sometimes, he overlooked them.

Sometimes, he didn't.

Rosinante sat scrunched on their dirty uneven stool, trying not to squirm, choking down whimpers of pain. He'd been struck with a bottle this time and glass had managed to wedge under his lower back, five and a half inches from his spine. His knuckles were white as they gripped the stool's rim.

Doffy tore out the shard, a wet fragment pinched between forefinger and thumb. He poured a stolen pint of whiskey over the wound to clean out the grit and it hurt so terribly Rosinante thought he could die.

"Shh," Doffy murmured, when he'd finished wrapping it, and tugged Rosinante's shirt down, "You're alright." He had bruises on his face which were purpling, and blood flaking away from the corner of his mouth. When he turned against the window light, tired lines shadowed his pale face and suddenly Rosinante was crying so hard he couldn't breathe. Doffy shifted, maybe to silence him before the mob caught the noise.

"Rosi..."

He grabbed his brother first.

"Is it wrong that we're here, Doffy?" he said, "Would it have been better if we'd never existed at all?"

His brother stared at him. Rosinante hiccupped, his chest jolting. He was too exhausted to think about his words and whether he meant them or not. He couldn't even hold up his gaze, forehead sinking against his brother's stomach. He tried to calm his sobs. Doffy didn't push him away. He didn't move in general.

It was forever later, before a hand lifted him by the chin, a sleeve mopping his face of tears. The touch was gentle and the glasses so vacant and dark, Rosinante did not realize Doffy was angry until he heard fury crackling and slithering through his voice.

"Don't say that again, Rosi," he whispered, "Not ever."

Loguetown is well-nested with pirates and thieves. There's a base present, but it doesn't seem to be contributing much deterrence-wise. The captain in charge is...jumpy. He has black rings beneath his eyes and a balding spot. Nearly collapses when Garp roars a greeting and claps him on the shoulder. Enzo is the name, as Rosinante manages to gather amongst the shouting.

"Are you here with more reinforcements, sir?" Enzo asks, gripping the lapels of Garp's coat, eyeing their band with blazingly hopeful eyes.

"What, them?" Garp laughs, giant hands on his waist. "Of course not! They're the new chicks from last spring. You don't need reinforcements, my good man. Don't sell yerself short!"

Captain Enzo folds against a table and the closest cadet makes a half-lunge at catching him. "S-Sir, we don't have enough--this isn't--he's in a holding cell--"

"Ah, yer thinkin' he'll escape." Garp gives a sage nod. "Don't be scared, lad. His time's come. He won't be goin' anywhere now."

Enzo doesn't look remotely reassured and curiosity pulses through Rosinante. He's sure there are notorious pirates all over Loguetown, but certainly no one so unusual that a fully-stocked marine base wouldn't be able to handle.

He waffles a second too long though about asking, and by then Garp is announcing that he'll actually have to borrow a few men for a trip to Dawn Island.

"Dadan's been spotted in Goa, y'know. The tough old bitch just won't quit. Gotta try and catch her by surprise this time."

"What?" Enzo's hands twist in the air, a false start at the Vice Admiral's neck. "Y-You--but--what about the prisoner?"

"It'll just be a day." Garp jabs a flippant thumb behind him. "Besides, that's why I brought you the baby marines here. Even Sengoku's own boy, look!"

Rosinante half-chokes as a bulging arm hooks him by the throat. His classmates start backwards like pigeons.

"You take good care of this kid, alright? 'Else that codger's gonna have your head."

"No, no, he won't. I can take care of myself, sir," Rosinante wheezes out at a death-white Enzo, "I don't need special treatment."

"Ha! Always the right spirit in this one!" Garp laughs uproariously, gives one more merciless squeeze before releasing him and sauntering for the door. He's almost at the exit, before turning around with a fraction more sobriety than before.

"You'll be fine. It's over. Really this time. Hard to believe, but true."

Enzo cradles his head. "We won't stand a chance if he gets loose. Not that monster..." Garp flaps his hand, blithely still without concern. He looks at Rosinante actually, his wrinkled eyes strangely piercing. There's a measure of study and expectation in them that has Rosinante blinking back in puzzlement.

"Give him some company, won't you, kiddo?"

Rosinante glances at Captain Enzo, has no idea if the man's who Garp is referring to or really what he's talking about at all.

But he nods anyway of course. "Yes, sir."

"He was a lord."

Rosinante rolled over, rubbing his eyes. The spot beside him on the bed was empty. A few feet from the ajar door, his brother hunched on the floor, his hair feathered by moonlight. A scraping sound crept through the room. Scrik. Scrik. Rosinante stared at his back.

"Who?"

"That drunk. He owned land in some place called the Bourgeois Kingdom. Had only a daughter. Liked to box in his free time."

"Huh? How do you know that?"

Doffy didn't answer.

"He was obsessed with money. Probably too obsessed. Got a taste for the cards that he never quit again." Doffy shifted, his arm moving. "And he pissed it all away. Their wealth, their power. Their freedom. All of it for some stupid delusion."

Rosinante sat up. "Brother..."

"Soon, they had nothing. Only the clothes on their backs. No more special now than the peasants who'd tilled their fields. His daughter forgave him. She accepted their new lives and didn't begrudge him his mistakes. A mistake of her own actually."

Scrik. Scrik.

"He tried to fix things. Find work and quit gambling. He didn't know how. He had no fucking clue of what to expect from this new terrible world. He failed, Rosi. And one night, he was so sad, so drunk, so disappointed with himself that something snapped upon his final losing hand. He took those fists, which we're so friendly with now, and beat to death the man who'd folded him."

Doffy snorted, a dry, cold sound.

"They locked him up and thereafter he sat in his cell, waiting for his daughter to post bail. She never did. She'd fallen in love, you see. Found a corner of light in her shitty little life. He'd known this. Had even been happy for her. But what he didn't know was that it'd been the same man he'd beaten into a stain just a fortnight ago. And she just couldn't forgive him this time. He hadn't known that either."

Scrik. Scrik. Scrik.

"They found her in bed with her wrists slit, clutching a letter from her lover, and pinned her death on him too. He was imprisoned for...forty years, I think. There in the dark."

The world was blurring at its corners, going watery and soft. Pity filled his heart and Rosinante touched his own face, had to smear the tears from his eyes just as his brother finally turned around. A crimson line dragged on the floor. Doffy cracked his knuckles, every nail broken, mouth a glinting crescent of teeth.

"So you see, Rosi," his brother said, "Filthy cretin's always had it coming."

They spend most of the day cleaning the station rooms for Captain Enzo, who looks constantly on the edge of a blubbering meltdown and preoccupies himself for hours calculating and re-calculating his retirement pension. He's not interested in taking them around base, simply granting them leave to explore as they please.

"Except the basement holding cell," he says, hands crossing and uncrossing. "You stay out of there. I won't be responsible for what happens."

So naturally, the first thing that happens once they leave the captain's office is a proposal to explore said basement holding cell.

"C'mon," the most gung-ho of them, Fullbody, says, "Aren't you curious about what they're keeping down there? Must be like, a big name bounty or something."

Kisa, a fiery female rookie huffs. "There's never a thing you say that isn't stupid as hell. They'd never be able to hold a big name bounty in a tiny little cell in the basement. It's probably an animal. Something rare maybe. Like one of those white tigers from Goa."

"Now who sounds stupid?" Fullbody mutters and drops his dust rag when Kisa takes a swing at him. She chases him around in a shambling circle and the other cadets hoot.

Rosinante leans next to the supply closet door, casting an idle glance down the hall. The narrow basement stairs tunnel into darkness. Only a single bulb survives, granting flickering light at the entrance. It bears resemblance to the start of some cheap horror flick, but the sense of foreboding is undeniable.

"If you're so eager, why don't you go check it out first?" Kisa is saying to Fullbody.

"Maybe I will!" His chest puffs at the challenge and deflates with shameless immediacy when he turns, eyes darting towards the pitch-blackness further down. "...Hey, Rosinante, wanna check it out?"

"Cheater," a wave of voices muse.

Fullbody flips them off with teeth bared. He sends Rosinante a more beseeching look. "What do ya say? Please?"

Rosinante stares down the hall, grimace delicately masked. He's no desire to go in truth, who would, but remains teenage boy enough to dread making such an admission. "The captain gave express orders."

Fullbody laughs nervously. "That sad old mess? He doesn't have to know. Not like we're going down there to release anything. It's just a peek." He nudges Rosinante forward. "C'mon, n-not afraid of the dark, are ya?"

It's a messy combination of youth and irritation that has Rosinante agreeing in the end. He has to lead the way to the stairwell, trying to ignore how Fullbody is indeed already trying to use him as a shield. The bulb is even dimmer up close, and the shadows below seem to spring forward with every flicker, ascending step by step.

Fullbody swallows so loudly it echoes. His resolve crumples like wet paper.

"On second thought," he says, tossing his dyed-pink hair, "Haha, you're probably right. Captain's orders are captain's orders. We should go back. Fuck what those idiots think, right? They didn't even get this far..."

Rosinante squints, peering into the darkness in vain. It's swirling. Endless. He realizes suddenly that someone's locked down there alone.

"Why aren't there any lights?"

"Hm?" Fullbody glances at the lone sputtering bulb, before shrugging. "Probably not worth the beri, right? Who cares anyway, let's get outta here before someone catches us."

He tugs on Rosinante's shirt, but he's regarding the bulb now, frowning slightly. Rosinante reaches up, attempting to screw it on tighter. That's also the moment Captain Enzo's voice goes hurdling across the building, calling them for the mess hall. Fullbody jumps straight out of his skin.

"C'mon!" he squeaks, snatching for Rosinante's arm. He misses somehow and bumps into him instead.

The rest is self-explanatory.

Rosinante's eyes widen as his feet trip over each other. He catches Fullbody's shocked face only once, before tumbling head-first down the stairs.

"Doffy...what did you do?"

His brother smiled, crouching in front of the bed. "Come with me," he said and offered his hand.

It looked grisly, covered in dried and fresh blood, but Rosinante took it without hesitating. He held his brother's hand gingerly and wanted to ask Doffy why he kept doing such a thing to himself, if he'd at least let Rosinante wrap his fingers before they went off to wherever they were going. But Doffy had already pulled them out of the hut, an odd excitement about him. He didn't slow down, not even when Rosinante stumbled over a root and was almost dragged several feet down the road.

Plenty of stars were out, but the trail ahead remained muddled. Rosinante didn't know how Doffy was able to see anything with shades on and only one unbandaged eye.

But they made it through town without causing a stir. Doffy led him along the brush-choked arroyo, picking over the rocks swiftly and without fumble--his grace silent and feline, weightless in a way that Rosinante would never find description for. "Careful," his brother warned, saving him for the sixth time from a freezing dip in the water, "Keep hold of my hand."

He tried his best, even though Doffy's palm was slick and difficult from blood. Only once did he lose his grip, a staggering second with his brother vanished in the dark, before he managed to latch fingers onto his wrist. Doffy stiffened instantly, stopping dead in the middle of a step. His brother twitched and spun at him.

"S-Sorry," Rosinante stammered, "I didn't...I didn't mean to let go. I'm sorry."

Doffy was quiet. Rosinante thought he was going to yank his arm away then, but he didn't. Just sighed and turned back to the path.

"I know," he muttered, "Hurry up."

By some miracle, he manages not to shatter his nose when he finally lands in a heap at the base of the stairs. Rosinante groans, seeing nothing for a second but a tie-dye of blotches and spots. The breath's been knocked clean out of his lungs and he can only lie there a moment, utterly winded and bruised.

"Ugh." He drags himself into a sitting position, rubbing his head as Fullbody half-hysterically calls his name from above. He stutters something about getting Captain Enzo, before rushing off without waiting for a reply. Great.

It's incredibly dark in the basement. The stone floor is smooth and oddly moist, like the surface of a fish eye, and the air is laden with polish and mildew.

Something rattles, the metallic din of chains. And something chuckles. Deep and husky.

"Still among the living, little boy?"

Rosinante freezes. Stay still. A ghost reminds him. Stay still.

"Well, I can hear that racing heart from here, so I'm guessing so," the voice says, "Heard yer friend making a fuss up there earlier too. Have a penchant for dangerous games, do ya? I can relate." A full-on laugh this time, louder than a clap of thunder, louder than dragons, even the walls seem to shrink before that sound. Rosinante scrambles backwards on his hands. He touches something waxy and slightly lumpy and almost falls flat again. It's a half-used candle, he realizes as his vision adjusts.

"But you beat him down here, eh? Whether you meant to or not. Always was fond of lads like you, with an extra spring in their step. What's your name?"

Across from him, the cell bars are almost visible. A figure languishes on the other side, seated on the ground. It's obviously very tall, even more than Rosinante who's about to break seven feet.

"Well, boy?"

The voice is patient, not even remotely angry, but his heart jumps up his throat regardless. "R-Rosi—" he clears his throat, "Rosinante."

"Rosinante," it's tried out for a moment, "What a complicated name. Your friends call you, Rosi, instead?"

He thinks it's too dark for anything to see him stiffen, but the voice makes an amused sound right after. "Heh, probably not then." Chains strike the ground. The figure seems to lean back, resting against the cell wall. "Welcome to my humble abode, Rosinante. I'd introduce myself as well, but it'd hardly matter at this point." The voice softens. "So forgive the rudeness, yeah?"

It was a shallow gulley where the arroyo ended, mud splattering across the curves of the ditch. Pinprick fireflies scattered from the brush as they drew near, their small footsteps sinking in the marshy earth. The air was fetid. Decay and moss.

Puke and vodka.

Rosinante saw him over the curve of Doffy's shoulder. The drunkard lay shuddering amongst the reeds. His broad, horrible hands cradling his punctured stomach. Stabbed almost fifty times.

"Look, Rosi," his brother said and pointed, bone-white face glowing. "Look."

"Not from around Loguetown, I see," the voice says, "Not even close. Did ya want to see the world? I get that. I was born here myself, but...well, this must be the second time I've been here my whole life. Quite a lonelier experience, I have to say."

"You're alone?"

Rosinante's hand almost flies to his mouth, the words having sprung off his tongue without will. The voice chuckles.

"Yeah, kid, it's just me now."

"...Why are you here?"

"Got arrested of course."

"Is that really why?" Rosinante says before he can help himself, "Captain Enzo's afraid of you."

"Ha, marines." More shifting. "Never did understand you lot. Tell him not to fret. My sunset's at Loguetown. Always was gonna be."

Rosinante stares at the shadow through the bars. "You're on death row?"

"Sure am. Execution's next month. That's when the summer flowers bloom actually. Everywhere in Baterilla. You ever been?" A sigh. "Beautiful, y'know. Just beautiful."

Rosinante doesn't know. He has trouble remembering places for anything but their ghosts, let alone their beauty.

"Your...family's there?"

"Family? Heh, my family's all over the place now, across the four blues, but...yeah. In the sense of yer question, I've got family in Baterilla. My girl. My son." The voice grows soft again. "But you don't wanna know about all that. No one should ever drone on about their life story. Bad taste in my opinion. You should be off."

Rosinante's aware. He's going to get in so much trouble, double even what he's expecting if Fullbody squeals and pushes all the blame onto him. He really should be off, but...

"I don't mind," he says, "I want to know."

He clenched his brother's wrist, sweat-sticky, pupils tinier than dots. "Doffy," he said, breath shivering, "what did you do?"

Doffy's grin slackened instantly. He blinked and his reply took forever, vague with confusion.

"What do you mean? Don't you see him there?"

"Don't you?" Rosinante said, pulling Doffy around, "We need to get help!"

Now his brother looked stunned. "Help? Why?"

What do you mean why? Rosinante wanted to scream, his heart beginning to quiver as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The man was still moving, his chest inflating and deflating weakly. If they ran back to town, or if Father had perhaps returned, there could still be a chance.

"Let's go, Doffy!" he said and yanked his brother, who was still shocked enough to comply. They hadn't gone more than three steps though, when a voice halted them.

"You're wasting your time with the townsfolk." A silhouette stepped from the shadows. Pitch black lens for glasses and a shiny bob of dark hair. A crust of blood hung on his cheek. Rosinante wondered if this was a nightmare.

Doffy turned back around. "Vergo."

The boy nodded, hands out of sight. "Young master."

"You were suppose to get out of here."

"Apologies. I was on my way." It was directed at Doffy, Vergo's words, but Rosinante could feel his stare roaming coolly across his face. "I couldn't help but overhear is all. The town hates outsiders, as I'm sure you're perfectly aware. They would never help this sad sack of garbage and you'd just get beaten again for your trouble."

"Then Father!" Rosinante tugged on his brother's wrist. "O-or we could bring back supplies ourselves. It'd be—"

"Pointless." Stars twinkled in Vergo's glasses. "It takes thirty minutes to bleed to death from a gut wound." He drew out his right hand. The switchblade dangled in his loose, blood-soaked hold. "He's already been lying here for twenty-six."

Rosinante didn't remember if he said anything. His whole body had gone numb. What he was feeling though—that must've reflected over his features, since Doffy touched his face, looking faintly troubled. "Rosi?"

His hand had blood on it too. A sudden urge in Rosinante wanted to throw him off, wanted to run screaming his lungs out and never ever look back again. It rampaged through him, ice-hot, before he managed to recall that his brother had broken all his nails earlier. That the blood was only his own.

"Doffy," he whispered through colorless lips.

His brother relaxed, mouth curving, as if he was extracting acceptance from such a response. Like all was right with the world again.

"I know you're confused," he said, "I know you're scared. But there's no reason to feel that way anymore. He'll never touch you...never hurt you again. Stop crying, Rosi. Why are you always crying? He isn't worth it."

"W-Why did you—" Rosinante swallowed. "Even after hearing all of that, you still..."

"Hm? Of course I did. Why should it matter to me what sob-fest of a backstory he has? He decided it'd be okay to mess with us, thought he'd take pleasure in beating us down. Made my little brother ask me if we ever should've existed." Doffy grabbed his shoulder with his free hand. His functioning eye peered from over the shades. It was suddenly angry, suddenly grotesque with fury.

"And that, Rosi, isn't the sort of fucking shit I'll be abiding by. Do you hear me?"

The voice told Rosinante about a woman in Baterilla. Her eyes, her freckles, her favorite white dress which twirled in the wind like a ribbon over a gorge. That final memory of her hands resting over the bump of her belly. He'd presented her with astounding treasures, riches that could've defied comprehension, and yet her favorite gifts had been the garlands he'd woven her from the wildflowers. The hibiscuses he'd threaded through her hair.

"That hair of hers," the voice says so quietly, "Her hair was...like a candle. Like a flame in the dark. My god, can you imagine?"

"I can imagine the dark," Rosinante replies.

A pause. He swears the shadow studies him.

"Someone like you, kid, not made for it."

"I knew it for years."

"And wasn't that painful?"

The silence stretches long and thin. The chains clink again and the shadow's arms cross.

"You mind some advice, Rosinante?" it says, "From an old, soon-to-be-dead nobody?"

Vergo smiled. It held a glimpse of admiration, left unconcealed.

"Well said, young master." His left hand dropped then too and brandished the lead pipe, holding it out to Doffy like a prized sword for battle.

"Three more minutes, you know," said Vergo.

Doffy did not hesitate. He did not pause, he was smiling wider even than Vergo and Rosinante almost didn't process himself what he was doing until he'd already snatched the pipe out of Vergo's hand and chucked it as far as he could into the brush. He didn't observe the surprise and then ink-black darkness which crowned over Vergo's expression. Barely spared a look at him.

"C'mon." Rosinante clutched his brother’s wrist. "Let's go."

Doffy was gaping, so genuinely perplexed it made Rosinante sick inside. "Rosi," he said after a while, "You just—"

He shook his head. "I want to go."

Vergo prodded the dying man with a shoe. He moaned, wheezing, rheumy eyes blinking open a second before rolling into his skull. His body rattled at the brink of death's door.

"Young master,” Vergo said.

Doffy ignored him. "Rosi, isn't this what—"

"I wanna go home."

"But—"

"Doffy!" he said, and his eyes squeezed shut, tears gathering amongst the heat. If he loves you, his own voice whispered to him, if he's ever loved you at all then...

"Brother, please."

"Life's just a song," the voice says, "And we're all dancing to it until the curtain falls. So you gotta bask in that spotlight while you can. Gotta decide which stage you'll be taking that bow. And keep the past where it belongs. Don't ever let it be the only direction you know." The chains rattle. The figure seems to lean forward.

"Understand, boy?"

Rosinante nods dumbly. He wonders though, if he does.

The voice grunts in approval. "Good."

There's a noise like cloth ruffling, like coat sleeves crossing against each other. A herd of footsteps thud overhead and Fullbody is screaming his name at a crazy high-pitch, as if he's fallen into the abyss instead of down a flight of stairs.

"Seems like you really ought to be on your way this time."

Rosinante nods again. Doesn't move though.

"What's her name?" he says, "If you'd like, I...could deliver a message for you."

There's a laugh again. It's almost fond.

"You've really got such heart, boy. Must be beating for two, huh?"

He has no idea what that means, but the voice is continuing on, "Kind of you to offer, but she already knows everything I have to say. Fierce and brilliant, that lady of mine. Just a shame I won't get to meet our son. Or see that hair of hers one last time."

Rosinante's expression falls. "I'm sorry."

"Ha, don't be sorry, kiddo. I lived wildly and truly. I was freer than any bird could dream to be. And it was a mighty fine run, trust me on that. Don't be sorry."

But he is. It's at his core. Caused his brother endless frustration too.

Rosinante stands. Something rolls over and knocks against his shoe. He looks down.

"Okay," Doffy whispered, nodding blankly, hastily. He's baffled, but the blue disc of his eye was on Rosinante's tears. A thumb slid over his face, halted at his salt-crusted cheek. Doffy's features pinched tight. "Okay, fine, let's go home."

Rosinante nodded as well, mouth a white line. Vergo said something, which Doffy mumbled a reply to.

Then eventually Vergo disappeared and Doffy was walking with him back down the arroyo. It was still dark and he tripped several times without complaining. He didn't let go of Doffy's wrist, even when his brother muttered that his touch was clammy and cold. Doffy didn't press the issue.

When he tripped a final time and bloodied up his knee though, Doffy stopped. His brother reached into his pocket and produced a ragged book of matches, freed one and struck it alight with deft fingers.

"Here," he said, sliding the rest of the set into Rosinante's pocket. "Not sure I should be giving this to you, but...it's for the dark. So you don't keep falling on your face like a fool."

He looked away without waiting for Rosinante's reaction. Almost purposefully. The discomfort in him was obvious. He still didn't understand, that was clear too. In all honesty, Rosinante couldn't fathom why.

But he didn't want to fight. Doffy's chastised mood only lasted so long, before he started believing someone else was at fault. He didn't want to fight. Not after what just happened.

So Rosinante nodded and mumbled, "Thank you." Doffy grunted and that was all.

The candle wick is a stub, but still long enough for a flame. Rosinante grins in triumph, turning back to the cell. He slips the stick between the bars, while digging in his pants-pocket. His fingers settle over that old familiar shape, lingers there for only a beat.

"Here," he says, and slides the book of matches in too. "I'll ask Captain Enzo if I can at least get the lights fixed down here, but for now...please use this."

A snort. "You sure? Gonna let me play with fire? I could melt these chains, blast a hole through the floor if I wanted to."

Rosinante tilts his head. "If you wanted to," he agrees, "Maybe you could go see your wife again. Or your son."

"Aren't you only a baby marine?" The chains rattle. "Have ya lost interest in a long, illustrious career already?"

"I'm a cadet," Rosinante says and ignores the rest of the sentence. A career has never interested him, but strangely, he knows there won't be any escapes attempted tonight either. Loguetown is a sunset town, as Vice Admiral Garp had told them. And if there's anything his superior will actually get solemn about, it's the truth. This stranger's going to die here. Rosinante knows it well.

And yet still, he gestures at the candle and the little book of matches. "It'd just be nice, you know?" he says, "If you could use those for something good."

The pause is a surprised one. Rosinante doesn't have time for any more contemplation though, rushing for the stairs instead. Captain Enzo is tearing into Fullbody, both of their voices equally shrill. His hand has just touched the rail, when a soft 'flick' catches behind him. He peers over his shoulder.

A bright flame nurses on the wick. It webs out in a wavering puddle of light, abating the shadows.

The grin appears first. Then his black hair and curved mustache. The piercing circles of his eyes. A red coat.

"Thanks, kiddo."

Rosinante nods mechanically, gaze wide with inexplicable awe. He turns and climbs out of the dark.

"Are you mad at me still?" Doffy asked suddenly, when they'd made it back to the shack, when they were sitting against the sill and Rosinante's squinting into the distance for any sign of their father.

His brother glared at the horizon, legs similarly tucked up. He looked lost. Looked almost small, if that could even be possible for Doffy. Like his feelings have been terribly hurt somehow.

Rosinante's wretched heart couldn't help itself. It was soft. It had to beat for two.

"No," he said, bumping his brother's shoulder, "I'm not mad at you."

Chapter Text

"I can't believe you got us stuck here."

Rosinante laughs, rubbing his neck, sweating a little because Smoker's homicidal glare does not abate in the least. In fact, it only seems to deepen - one furious increment per nervous chuckle - and Rosinante makes a hurried note to put a lid on all the nervous chuckling before it gets him shunted off to the next world.

"Look, I'm sorry okay?" he says again, for probably the fifth time now, "But you really shouldn't have been fighting."

"No one asked you to interfere, " Smoker snarls, clattering another soapy plate onto the counter top. Rosinante sighs, wipes it dry and adds it to the stack. There are several teetering behind them, shiny and precarious, but the mountains of dirty dishes don't seem to shrink.

He supposes they wouldn't with how Vice Admiral Garp keeps coming back in with more bins from the spare barracks. He's been housing a...gang of mountain bandits there? At least Rosinante thinks those words were somewhere in the middle of Sengoku's conniption.

Rosinante cracks his neck, trying to loosen his muscles from being stooped for hours. Shooting up seven feet in nine years makes everything feel tight, including his own skin.

"Can we trade?"

"No." Smoker isn't even looking at him. Perhaps Rosinante's eye twitches a little.

"Why not? You wash, I dry. I wash, you dry. It makes no difference."

"I'd have to disagree, sir," Smoker snaps, shoving another sopping plate into his hands, "If you recall, we started out with you washing. We've lost ten bowls and four cups with you washing and you were washing for exactly eleven fucking minutes. So yeah, I think it makes a difference."

Then he starts scrubbing at the caked grease of an old wok like he's imagining it as Garp's face and Rosinante scowls. It'll be a long month.

In retrospect, maybe he should've just minded his own business. Smoker is surly and foul-mouthed, and can't seem to live without disrespecting authority. He's probably the first marine Rosinante has ever met with a rap sheet longer than those of actual criminals.

Sengoku initially denounced him as a punk, then a reformed stray and then suddenly thought it a good idea to assign Rosinante as his direct supervisor, so he could "spend more time with people his own age."

"Lieutenant or not, you're barely eighteen, Rosinante. Act the way teenagers are suppose to. Like Smoker-kun."

Like what? Start fights at random? Stomp around like the world's insulted him? Christ.

After recovering from the initial horror of Sengoku planning glorified playdates for him, Rosinante tries to weasel his way out of the arrangement. It's of distressingly little use. No amount of reassurance that he's fine, or busy, or in fact enjoys the solitude can change Sengoku's mind. There seems to be some deep idea cemented into the old man's head of Smoker's relevance here. Some certainty that he'll be able to teach Rosinante a thing or two. Rosinante's still waiting for that day to come of course.

So far, a right hook and an elbow to the gut's all he's gotten.

He isn't even sure what exactly triggers the latest showdown in the mess hall that day, but one minute he's trying not to trip over his own tongue while speaking with Captain Bellemere and the next "Smoker-kun" is snapping a chair and throwing his mashed eggs into another cadet's face.

Rosinante isn't a stranger to breaking up the occasional spat. His size isn't there for show and he isn't ignorant of his own strength. But in contrast to the many other hotheads he's had to shove apart in past years, Smoker is different in one very singular, very vital way that Rosinante isn't enlightened of until he's clawed Smoker into a bear hug and is leaning backwards for better purchase.

Then the little bastard dissolves. Literally melts into smoke in Rosinante's arms.

A miserable chain of events ensues. He crashes into a chair that flings backwards into a table, a tray's frisbeed into the beverage stand, glass spraying. Fire sprouts somehow. Then sprinklers. It's cacophony for hours.

He's pretty sure some of the swear words Smoker hurls at him are entirely made up. Not that Rosinante pays too much attention when he's busy shriveling up into himself.

By the end and considering the state of the mess hall, busboy duties for a month is downright generous.

Doesn't stop Smoker from thinking otherwise and making a loud point of it anyway. Rosinante admires his drive. He can't even get past the fact that Captain Bellemere had been watching the whole time.

For the first week, it's an uncomfortable silence. Smoker speaks little to him aside from grunts for more soap or a towel, and of course the spurts where he's blaming Rosinante non-stop for their predicament.

It gets old surprisingly fast. Rosinante likes to think he's rather patient. It'd been practically required of him growing up, given the other far more volatile personality of the household his parents had hoped he could soothe.

And Smoker is not the worst as far as selfish behavior goes. Not by a long shot.

Yet somehow, it's still annoying.

"Why couldn't you just mind your own business? This is your fucking fault."

The plate creaks beneath Rosinante's hand. By the second week, he's stopped trying to apologize.

"It's not."

Smoker glares over his shoulder, tossing scummy dish water from the tub out the back. Rosinante stands at the door, staring back with a flicker of heat.

"The hell are you--"

"My fault that is," Rosinante says, stepping closer, "It's not my fault that we're doing any of this. It's yours."

The black of Smoker's eyes hardens. He drops the tub onto the grass. "Oh, yeah? How so?"

"You were fighting. You were causing a disruption. You broke the rules, I didn't." Rosinante doesn't realize he's stepped onto the porch until he's stretching to his full height, blocking out the crimson sun at late noon. Smoker's expression doesn't change, scowl fierce as Rosinante's shadow blankets him.

"It's all about the rules with you, isn't it?" he does say though, suddenly, and Rosinante's brow raises, because that's a plain question if he's ever heard one.

"Obviously. I'm a marine. And they're there for a reason."

"Right." It sounds derisive. "And that reason is?"

Rosinante doesn't even ponder.

"To tell us what's fair. And what's right from what's wrong."

Smoker bursts out laughing. He's never heard the younger boy make any sound that wasn't a growl, a snarl or a curse word, but his laugh is just as rough, jagged and ugly. Rosinante's face begins to darken. Little punk.

Smoker ceases as abruptly as he started. Four seconds in total. Then his sneer is cold and unimpressed.

"If you really need a bunch of drivel and dust to tell you that, then you're even more fucking clueless than I thought."

He snatches up the tub and steps onto the porch, shoving Rosinante aside via his elbow and heads back into the kitchen.

The thing is...

The thing is Rosinante cannot let that go. He's fine with being called lots of things, 'idiot,' 'fool,' 'klutz,' but never clueless. Never naive. Not when he has things which need to be done and...responsibilities that need to be upheld. Rosinante is not naive. He is not fucking clueless. He can't afford to be. He doesn't have the luxury.

Smoker doesn't know of course, about his past or the meaning of his name or really him, but then what right does he have to judgment in the first place?

"You don't know what you're talking about."

It's the middle of the third week and they're scouring the stew pots, having finished the plates and cutlery early. Smoker darts a glance at him, not pausing in his rinsing.

"What are you babbling on now?"

"I follow the rules because they're necessary," Rosinante says curtly, as if they're not picking up a conversation from days and days ago, "I follow them because they help me keep perspective."

"You follow them because you have no perspective," Smoker snorts in disgust, shakes his head. "You're just a golden boy. Thinking everything's so black and white and easy. You don't have the first clue. Rich spoiled upstarts like you never do."

Rosinante's fingers go still on the brush.

"What did you just call me?"

The room has become thick enough to slice apart like butter. Smoker sets down his pot, turns to look Rosinante directly in the eye.

"You," he says, "are a rich and spoiled upstart who probably has it all nice and cushy with your family connections and your old money." Smoker's lip curls, his eyes flash. "You don't know, sir, the meaning of what's fair. And you don't know the meaning of pain."

Rosinante yanks Smoker off the ground. Their pots go tumbling, crashing to the floor in a thunderous cacophony that vibrates against their bones. Rosinante will feel it later. He drags Smoker close, pulls him up with one hand so they're eye to eye again. There's a speck of shock in the younger boy's gaze, perhaps a moment of intimidation or understanding that he's crossed a line.

Rosinante doesn't know. Doesn't care.

"Smoker-kun," he says after a long moment, "I realize you think poorly of me. You've been nothing but crystal clear on that front and to be honest, my own thoughts on you at this point aren't especially rosy either. No one said we had to like each other of course, and your opinion doesn't seem something I can help anyway." His hand tightens. The navy ascot of Smoker's uniform tears. "But you won't ever assume again that I don't know what's fair. That I don't know pain. We're not going down that road, understand?"

Smoker's stare is baleful at first, then shifting. Rosinante does not move. He cannot comprehend why it's so easy for Smoker to pass judgment when it's such an impossible thing to undo. When passing judgment has the capability of destroying anything and everything.

"Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Smoker says, toneless.

Rosinante nods and sets him on the ground. Then he walks out past the upturned pots and the fallen brushes without a word, feeling Smoker's stare hot on his back.

It takes him until nightfall to force his feet to Sengoku's office and ask for Smoker's reassignment.

"Oh, why? Seemed like everything was going swimmingly."

Rosinante looks up from scratching Yuki's ear and scowls.

"You can't be serious."

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because he hates me, sir, and I..." Rosinante sighs, fiddles with Yuki's collar as the goat tries to eat his long coat. "He pushes my buttons, I guess. I didn't even know I had--"

"Exactly."

Rosinante looks up and Sengoku's hands are crossed and resting on his desk. "Why did Smoker anger you, Rosinante?" he says, "Because he dismisses the rules. Because he doesn't hold them to the same level as yourself. Impudent of him, but you should understand that, in a way, he's correct. Following rules does not mean justice is served. It is not always the right thing to do. Smoker has quite a grasp on this. I was hoping he could teach you."

"What are you talking about, sir?" Rosinante asks, exasperated, "If you mean that I--"

"I mean," Sengoku says, "that should there ever be a day when you're faced with choosing the rules in your head or the love in your heart then you ought to know which one it should be."

Rosinante's mouth flattens. He nods carefully, as if he understands, though he won't really understand until much, much later. Sengoku rises, plucking a folder out of his drawer and tossing it onto the couch next to him.

"Smoker's file," he says, "Reassignment denied."

Rosinante reads.

A runaway mother. An abusive drunk of a father. An older sister who finally took him and escaped. They bounced through foster care for a while and then the streets when they came of age. The older sister was caught stealing a loaf of bread. Brushed against the sleeve of a world noble when she tried to run. Got hung at noon of that day.

Rosinante shuts the folder.

He has an apology all prepared when he enters the kitchen during their next shift, but is surprised to find Smoker there already. The dishes, even the mounds and mounds from Vice Admiral Garp's bandit friends, have been all cleaned and dried. The pots scrubbed, the waste water dumped and the towels and sponges put away. Plates, cups and utensils sit neatly on the counter in careful stacks.

Smoker is standing in front of the sink like he hasn't been working since the crack of dawn. They look at each other.

"I'm sorry," he says and Rosinante nods.

"Me too."

Without any dishes to wash, they end up having a beer together.

"About the fight I got into," Smoker says, brows knitting for a second, face pinched, "That asshole was spouting shit about an execution that happened a couple years back, you know? Like he was there, like he knew anything. It fucking pissed me off."

Rosinante turns slightly and asks, "What execution?"

Smoker takes another swig. His eyes are a little distant, a little red-rimmed and moist.

"A hanging."

On the last day of their punishment, Smoker gives him a cigarette.

"Live a little," he says, showing him how to light it, "A stick won't kill you."

Rosinante already knows what's going to kill him too, one way or another, so he presses the filter to his mouth and sucks in the smoke. He coughs hard, feels it tangle up in his lungs and Smoker chuckles and slaps his back like he's finally passed some kind of test.

"It's not as simple as it looks," he says, "Nothing ever is. Hurts, doesn't it?"

Rosinante exhales, the pale wheezing strands of his breath drifting towards the sky, the coast, the North Blue.

"It does."

Chapter Text

It’s your fault, they had said.

My daughter’s been raped (my wife’s been shot) (my house is gone) (I live in chains).

Pay Pay PAY

Not enough water in all the seas to wash the sins out of your line.

He enlists the day he turns fourteen. Down to the very second practically. Rosinante scribbles through the small perfunctory stack of application forms, hurrying, hurrying, movements borderline febrile. He’s waited a long time.

Yuki is in the mood for following him around that day and trots beside him all the way from his room to the main headquarters building. Rosinante ends up tethering the little goat to a column in the hallway beneath the bulletin board. There’s a clipping tacked to the center today. Massacre at Elysium Springs. Rosinante keeps his gaze ahead.

The clerk stamps the papers with a bare skim of them, a half-glance at his age that raises a brow but little else. The Government’s running low on cannon fodder and it’s always eager for fresher meat.

“Good on you, kid,” the clerk offers at the end, filing the application away, “It’s a noble calling. Helping people and saving lives. You’re doing a good thing.”

Rosinante’s eyes skitter towards the floor. He nods.

Yuki is chewing on the corner of a flyer when he returns. Rosinante pulls it out of his mouth and feeds him a carrot stick instead. He fusses with his collar. Fusses with his leash. Checks to see if he's gotten any pebbles stuck in his hooves, until Yuki finally bucks him off. Then Rosinante takes a breath and wills himself to look at the board. The face in the clipping is blurry, grained from distance, but one he can recognize anywhere.

Doffy has taken to piracy.

He’s gotten just as big as Rosinante, broad around the shoulders and massive in height. Probably a few inches taller too because of course. That is the bare sum of things between them. Uneven ground. Too much or not enough.

His brother is grinning, face marred by a blaze of countless teeth. He’d barely even smiled back in the day and such a sight now is spine-chilling. Makes him look wicked and crazed. (“I’ll remember this,” Doffy had whispered, the hiss of a sound beneath sulfuric flames, “You just wait.”) It’s the first time out of a thousand more that he'd be staring back at Rosinante from a front-page.

Who knows where Doffy's trying to go, charging full-speed down this thorned, blood-spackled path. Maybe Doffy doesn’t know either or maybe he doesn’t care to.

It matters little in the end, he supposes, because Rosinante has to follow him regardless. It’s his job and his duty. He has to.

Your fault, old voices say, Your fault.

Rosinante is so fucking tired already.

The academy doesn’t subscribe to hand-holding. In one year, Rosinante learns how to oil a gun, how to load bullets and sail and build a smokeless fire. He’s taught to fight with precision, trained to high hell in endurance and stamina, maybe comes out of it falling on his face just a bit less than he used to.

He does pretty well. He’s no whip-cord on the uptake like Doffy, but his labor yields him respectable bounty. By mid-year, he’s guiding his classmates through the steps in different sailor knots, the manner in which to conduct basic first aid or take apart a rifle.

He’s patient and encouraging and explains things well. They’re always grateful for his help, but Rosinante doesn’t realize he’s made any friends until he’s being invited for drinks with them after graduation.

It’s an odd experience, sitting in the courtyard with people his own age. Father’s reputation had been poor in Mariejois and what few other children present there steered clear of him and his brother. They had never had anyone else's company aside from each other's. He realizes this now.

Their mother had always found it so distressing.

Her memory isn’t old enough yet to touch and so he stops thinking of it, finishing his beer, swallowing down the ache.

One of his classmates, Fullbody, asks where he’s from. Rosinante lies.

“You said you wouldn’t give me any special treatment, remember?”

Sengoku grunts into his teacup.

“I know, I know.”

“This is what I want, sir.”

A sigh. The long, thin hairs of Sengoku’s eyebrows are knit in concern. “You’re practically a babe. What could you know about what you want?”

Rosinante blushes, scowling slightly. Sengoku takes this as an opening to keep pushing.

“It’s not too late to take a break for a few years. Explore a little. Let yourself think it over.”

“I’ve already thought it over.”

“Yes, but…I just mean there’s a whole world of options for you out there. So many choices and paths you could take. This is your life, Rosinante. I want you to treat it right.”

Rosinante stares at him, a strange weight hanging in his chest. He doesn't begrudge the old man his thoughts on the matter. Wishes often he could tell him what he wanted to hear.

It's just that the world's never felt the way Sengoku describes it to be. It’s never been big for Rosinante. Never been full of immeasurable possibilities. It’s absurdly narrow in fact, so flat and tight of a space that it’s hard to breathe right, let alone do anything with the remotest resemblance towards living.

He doesn’t mean to feel this way. Doesn’t mean to be contrary or all…hollow inside.

But it is what it is, down at the heart of things.

“I’ll be okay, old man,” he says, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

In his first year as a cadet, he goes on several circuits with Vice Admirals Kuzan and LaCroix around Paradise, rimming the outer skirts of South Blue. They escort refugees out of the lands of dictators and tyrants, flushing crime from impoverished towns like grit from a wound.

The waters there are every bit as untamable and deadly as the North, though the climate is gentler and there exists pockets of wilderness here that are beautiful beyond description. Maybe these are the dreams Father had always been chasing.

“Are we still on the same ship, kid?” Kuzan whines, trying to stand in the shade of the mastings, “Nothin’ beautiful about sweating your balls off in this goddamn heat.”

Vice Admiral LaCroix snaps at him through the Den Den Mushi. Seems pointless when LaCroix is literally keeping pace with the vessel on foot, but Rosinante doesn’t try to comment.

It occurs to him that Doffy is on the other side of the world. Maybe that’s why his heart has been sitting a tad lighter in his chest lately. Or is it heavier? He cannot say.

Rosinante watches the gulls fly over the sun. He wonders if they'll fly over his brother one day too.

The inches of his body fill up with scars as the years roll by, etched in like words upon a page. Knives, bullets, the shrapnel from grenades. Mundane things like falling down the stairs trying to figure out the Nagi Nagi no Mi. He takes mission after mission, volunteers especially for the towns that his brother has destroyed.

People thank him endlessly. He's unaccustomed and faintly unsociable and it’s all rather awkward. Not enough either. Not enough at all. He can’t bring back what Doffy takes away. He can only try and keep pace.

(Pay. The echo is always there. Pay.)

During a particularly wet and ornery summer, a hurricane knocks hard into one of the Yarukiman trees of Grove 53, creating massive tidal waves.

Rosinante runs through pelting rain and howling winds to the doors of a half-flooded marine warehouse. There, he leads workers through the rising green water and debris, carrying a few who can’t move quickly enough. If nothing else, the evacuation goes smoothly.

He’s finally one foot out of the building himself, when he hears the cat yowling. It’s an old and grumpy creature, having lived up in the rafters for years and hisses like a rattle when Rosinante scrabbles his way to it.

He gets bitten at least five times trying to pry the damn thing off a log. Breaks his leg in the end too escaping out the window with it, scaling a cliff side to avoid the torrents. How exactly though, he can’t quite recall. The medical team only tells him he’s lucky.

“What were you thinking?” Sengoku shakes his head in disbelief as Rosinante limps from the kitchen, trying not to trip over the crutch. “The walls were about to cave in. You’re smarter than this, boy.”

Rosinante shrugs, struggling to carry the tray of rice ball ingredients to the table, until Sengoku walks over and promptly takes it away. “It would’ve died.”

“It was a cat.”

“Everything deserves a chance.”

“Not at the expense of your own life,” Sengoku snaps, tone stern as he sets the tray on the table, “Don’t do something like this again. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sengoku grunts and it’s without any seeming satisfaction, since he adds, “You need to be more careful. I won’t have you dying before me.”

A pulse of guilt ripples through Rosinante's veins. He sits down in front of the tray. The old man regards him closely, the heat of his concern growing the more seconds that go by.

“…You are okay, son,” he says, “right?”

The large bowl of diced salmon topples onto the floor. Sengoku startles and Rosinante murmurs immediate apologies. “I know they’re your favorite,” he says, “But I can make ‘em without any if you wanna eat now.”

Sengoku looks at him as if he’s just been told to starve. He hurries for the kitchen, intent on slicing up another bowl’s worth.

The question’s long forgotten by the time he returns and for the first time in Rosinante’s life, he finds himself grateful for the nature of his own clumsiness.

So extensive can it be, that even little exaggerations go wholly unnoticed.

At the end of the year, his old classmate Kisa bleeds to death on the beach. She’d always been a fiery person, brave and full of pride. It’s frightening how she cries at the end, gripping his sleeves and begging to be saved. Blood pools from her gut wound, brighter even than her hair. Rosinante whispers meaningless comforts, plugging the hole best he can with his palms. He tells her not to give up, to keep fighting, if only a bit longer because help is on its way.

Doesn’t realize he’s already talking to a corpse until a full ten minutes later.

Fullbody, who’d perhaps been a little in love, can’t forgive him.

“It’s all your fault!” he yells through tears, and leaps at Rosinante in the middle of the hallway some hours after the funeral. Rosinante lets himself get knocked over. Lets Fullbody punch him across the face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, jaw stinging. Fullbody moves to punch him again, before other people manage to pull them apart. The following day, Fullbody is transferred to East Blue without fanfare.

Rosinante lifts the ice pack off his bruising cheek. He must have knocked his skull a bit against the floor, because it feels like a hammer is trying to riddle his brain with holes. “Don’t punish him, sir. He was grieving.”

“It’s not punishment,” Sengoku says, with the displeased look of someone who’d considered the idea, “Things are calmer over in East Blue. Less pirates. Maybe he’ll handle himself better out there.”

“But—”

“He’ll be fine.” Sengoku rises from his seat. “Come with me. We’re going to medical. Your color’s worrying.”

Medical seems to think so too. Rosinante leaves with a diagnosed concussion and Sengoku won’t hear another word about Fullbody after that. He lets it go eventually, wary of making things harder for the man.

“Don’t blame yourself, kid,” the groundskeeper says, with a measure of pity, perhaps reading something into the roses he buys for the grave, how he washes it until the stone gleams, “Bad things happen all the time. It isn’t your fault.”

But it is, Doffy whispers.

He is eighteen and the floor of his room crinkles beneath his feet—newspapers spilled in an ocean of ink. The Ito Ito had filleted seven people yesterday. Ten. Thirteen. None of it painless. None of it quick.

At breakfast, Sengoku mutters sincere thanks again that they decided to give him an alias. “At this rate, your brother’ll be in Impel Down till the next continental shifting,” he says and aims a pointed look his way for the umpteenth time, “When are you going to stop chasing him, Rosinante?”

Rosinante stares at the place mats, the white-washed hapao browned by old tea stains. He can see the weaves in the pattern, threads lacing, tightening, soft flesh popping.

“I'm sorry,” he says and Sengoku sighs.

The chair scrapes against the floor. He grabs Rosinante’s shoulders.

“Why are you sorry, boy?” he asks, “This is his doing. Not yours.”

Why are you sorry?

Rosinante remembers voices raging below his feet. Molten words running together like different reams of the same fire.

His arms had been burning, brittle as old rubber bands. His head spun circles in the dark.

A woman’s voice wailed, the quivering high note of hatred and grief. It rang through the smoke, echoed in the fall, and Rosinante still hears it in his sleep.

“You oughta slow down, cadet,” Captain Bellemere says in his nineteenth year, tracing a fingernail down his spine, along a map of keloid scars. “Better things worth searching for than an early death.”

Rosinante is silent for several long seconds, before rising from the bed.

“Are we still talking about me here?”

Bellemere guffaws—a clear, short sound.

“I love it when the fire springs forth.” She sits up, soft hair tossing over the pillows. “Ah well. Scars do give a person some character. Makes 'em sexy as hell. I'll fuck you any day of the week, always will.”

Rosinante nearly drops his neckerchief, heat blooming down his nape. The mattress groans as Bellemere slips out of the sheets after him, pattering over on tiny pink feet. Her fingers lay over an injury from a gun fight, a Devil Fruit fight, something older from a steel boot, a crowbar, a stick.

Rosinante steps away. “I should be going." Bellemere doesn’t stop him as he picks up his shirt and pulls it over his head. She walks him to the door, before tugging him down for a kiss.

“All I mean,” she says, “is that you’ve got a good heart. One of the best I’ve ever known. And you do far more than enough. Trust me.”

His brow quirks. Tenderness isn't typical of her and they don't get to such a point unless they're good and drunk first. Fingers press lightly to his mouth though, before he can reply.

“There’s no need,” she says, “to be sporting this kind of face, alright?” A hand slides against his cheek. Captain Bellemere smells like morning light.

“You’re too young to be wearing such eyes.”

Rosinante keeps it to himself—this tight, breathless sensation that spreads in his chest sometimes.

He is grateful to the marines, grateful for this chance he’s been given, and he won’t burden them with the knowledge of something that's frankly no one's problem or business but his own.

Even if it does feel remarkably similar to drowning.

Like he’s treading deep water, trying to draw breath, choking on nothing.

Like he’s fucking drowning.

Three months into twenty-one, Rosinante is sent off as part of a platoon to rescue a kingdom’s citizens from civil war. There are bodies in the fields, vultures crowding out the clouds. Some of the new cadets throw up and the stench summons that old familiar bile back to the end of his mouth.

Smoker’s face is drained white and fury-etched. There are principles in him that root deep and are unforgiving. A few years with the marines have taught him some restraint however and he turns to Rosinante with a deference that he’s almost unprepared to receive. “What’s the plan?”

There isn’t one to be honest. Rosinante takes in the location, wincing at the flimsy jetty out in the open that would be the sole area close enough for the longboats to dock at.

“I’ll go ashore to help them board. The rest of you cover us.”

Smoker stares at him like he’s grown an extra head.

“Just do it,” Rosinante says, hurrying for the ropes, “And don’t get shot."

“You’re the one who’s gonna fucking get shot!” comes Smoker’s belated reply.

There are two longboats with a capacity of thirty each for a group of sixty-four people. It works as well as it can. The refugees make it on board fine. Smoker doesn’t get shot and the rest of the platoon escapes injury too. They even take down a good portion of the enemy.

Rosinante’s mood is edging towards hopeful, when the Gatling rolls out on a dune.

“Motherfuck,” he whispers and gunfire peppers the boardwalk.

The last few people scream and sprint to the longboats, some of them jumping into the waves as the vessels are forced to break away to open sea. A woman crowds the railing and has to be yanked back to keep from plummeting overboard. Rosinante’s eyes swivel to the end of the dock where she’s pointing and sees another older woman, limp and shot to death on the boardwalk.

Two little girls are crouched by her, clinging to her skirts.

Rosinante runs.

He takes a bullet to the shoulder sniping down the Gatling user. Doesn’t notice or even feel it as he flies down the walkway. “It’s alright,” he pants, skidding and scrambling to a halt, “It’s alright, come with me, I’ll help you.” The children leap into his arms without hesitation, without words. He feels them shaking against his chest.

Smoker has stopped the longboat he’s on. His lower body’s dissolved into a trail of smoke and he’s levitated half off out of the boat, hovering over the surf. Rosinante thinks that he’s never seen Smoker do that before and also more absurdly, that he looks hilarious.

“Here, over here!” the younger man’s yelling, “Give ‘em here, I’ve got it, just throw ‘em, hurry up!”

Rosinante is running to the end of the jetty. “Tuck yourselves in, okay?” he murmurs to the children, “I’ll need to toss you up to the noisy genie-man over there.”

A giggle spurts from them, borderline hysterical. They nod, staring at him with pale, blind trust. Rosinante blankly registers that their eyes are blue.

And that’s about all there’s time for, before the boardwalk explodes beneath his feet.

“Holy fuck!” he thinks Smoker shouts from the boat, but his voice is distant and muffled. Pain erupts throughout his body and the world tries to darken. Rosinante forces it back. There are tiny hands clenched in his sleeves, the sound of children screaming and Rosinante twists around mid-air and flings the little bodies as hard and accurately as he can in Smoker’s direction.

Whether he succeeds or not, Rosinante is spared the knowledge. He hits something hard upon landing. The salt of the sea closes in over the dizziness of blood.

Someone shouts his name. Rosinante shakes his head.

“Go,” he wheezes, through black stars and cracked ribs. Go go go, for God's sake…

The stench of burning wood claws open the air and his vision spirals.

Rosinante is eight years old, hanging from a wall by his wrists. Voices calling him devil and demon spawn and you ruined my family, my life, my soul. They won’t listen when he tries to stammer that he doesn’t know what they’re talking about, doesn’t mean to be bad, that he would never take anything from anybody.

His brother is seated on a throne of bones, glasses darker than an oil spill. Rosinante wants to ask him to stop. Childishly so, like he used to whenever Doffy would walk too fast for him. He can’t go anymore. So beyond tired, beyond finished, he can’t follow, he can’t even breathe…

Don’t come back. The wish strikes Rosinante out of nowhere, deep and raw with ferocity. Not for something like me.

Don’t come back.

Please.

But he has a job.

A responsibility.

He can’t be done.

Something is laughing. The sound is both kind and unkind.

Rosinante bobs in and out of the sea of consciousness. There are snatches of sounds, bright flaring images whenever he manages to tug back his eyelids. Smoker’s shouting expletives, the sky framing his ash-smudged face.

Another blink and he’s staring at a white ceiling. It’s dark and Sengoku is there instead, peering down at him, looking like he hasn’t slept in days. Rosinante must try to say something, since the old man shushes him, holding a water glass to his lips. Rosinante attempts to swallow. It hurts. He closes his eyes again.

When he wakes up for good, both the night and Sengoku have been replaced. Sunlight streams from a window, unfurling through the glass and puddling on the hospital sheets. Captain Bellemere is sitting at the sill, napping with her arms pillowed behind her head.

A figure stands at the foot of his bed. Tall and slender, a long marine coat draped over the shoulders. Rosinante squints, swallowing a couple of times to work his dried throat.

“Tsuru-san?”

She moves out of the ray-casted shadow. Rosinante hasn’t seen Vice Admiral Tsuru in person in six years, ever since she took up permanent patrol of the North Blue. (“Keep an eye on him for you,” she’d promised). Nothing’s changed much about her though. Still iron and prudence and reproach as she sits down at his bedside.

“I expected a better plan from you than that,” she says, legs crossing, “When did you become so reckless?”

Rosinante turns his gaze away, feeling feeble beneath the layers of bandages and painkillers. Later on, he’ll learn that he’d been fished out of the sea. Countless wounds and scrapes. Three broken ribs and a sprained finger, on top of having a bullet removed from his shoulder. The two children survived though. Rosinante feels an actual weight lift off his spine.

“We were wide open. It was dangerous.”

“And so you risk yourself instead?” Tsuru sighs. “You should think a little more on Sengoku’s nerves and leave the foolishness to your brother. He has enough for you both.”

Rosinante's too weak and numb to properly conceal the flinch, though it's a wasted effort to pull that on Tsuru regardless. He doesn’t ask any questions, though she observes him carefully and then continues as if he has.

“Doflamingo believes you’re dead.”

He supposes that's only to be expected. Almost fourteen years have gone by. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“He did look for you though. Quite feverishly in truth. Several years.”

They are quiet a moment. Rosinante considers trying to parse what these words could mean, but doesn't. He's too exhausted for such a venture. Also afraid.

“Naturally, he wasn’t successful and the endeavor has pretty much convinced him of your death ever since.” Tsuru’s hands fold in her lap. “I know he’s your brother, boy. The choice will of course be yours in the end...”

She pauses, seems almost to arrange her words a little in her head, because they come out gently.

“But should you decide to never return to North Blue, and live a life entirely apart from him…there is nothing wrong with that, Rosinante. Or selfish. You have every right. And he would never even—"

“Tsuru-san,” Rosinante says, hands squeezing the sheets, “I’d rather not talk about this right now. With respect.”

The air is a cloud of antiseptic wash and the walls drip, as malleable as wax. Rosinante's sides start to ache, the bandages wrapped too tight. Tsuru nods and sits back. Her gaze holds no reprimand over the interruption.

“Of course. I’ll let you rest.”

Rosinante's shoulders sink in relief. He falls deeper against the pillows.

“I'm going to stop him,” he whispers too, letting the words break free for the first time. She does lance him with a glare for that one.

“He’s not your fault. Never was or will be.”

Doffy bursts out laughing. It sounds like madness, like hate, like grief. Not your fault? You left me.

Rosinante breathes carefully. He nods at Tsuru, who studies him with furrowed and wholly unconvinced brows. But eventually, she rises.

“We’re departing north again this afternoon. Afraid I won’t be able to come by a second time.” The hardness in her eyes abates for a beat. “But I’m glad you’re alright, child. It was good to see you again.”

I am your one purpose. Your sole duty. So long as I breathe, you too must keep going. He can almost feel it, the tiny fingers in his hair. The glacially expectant look on his brother's face. Remember that, Rosi.

“You too, ma’am,” Rosinante says, softly.

One week and some later, Vice Admiral Garp strolls into the infirmary bellowing his name at the top of his lungs. “ROSINANTE, DEAR BOY!”

A passing nurse jumps hard enough to drop a laundry bag. Beside his cot, Sengoku bristles faster than an angry cat, jabbing a finger at the door. “Get out.”

He is blithely ignored.

“Aren’t you a sorry sight, kiddo,” Garp says, whistling as he saunters up to the bed, “Heard you got plugged by a Gatling? Nasty pieces of work. Real popular these days though, so good thing you’re gettin’ used to the feeling, right?”

“Garp!” Sengoku squawks and Rosinante winces, reaching over to pat his old man’s arm, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have more thieves to harbor in remote mountain passages?”

“Ha! They moved out of the ol’ naval bunker some time ago. Fumes or a gas leak or something, we probably shouldn’t use it anymore either by the way.” He flaps his hand at Sengoku. “Relax, old man. I just came to see the kid. Brought a few folks over that were wanting to visit him. Bellemere and Smoker-kun too.”

“Five visitors at a time maximum, sirs!” The head nurse stomps in to momentarily explode at them.

Garp rubs his chin. “Huh, there’s a pity.” He claps Sengoku’s shoulder. “Well, let’s go.”

“What—?!”

“No worries, kid.” Garp flashes a giant thumbs-up at Rosinante. “I’ll feed and water him for ya.”

Then he’s hustling a protesting Sengoku out the door. Nearly right by Captain Bellemere and Smoker, who give them confused salutes. They flash Rosinante quizzical looks, which he can only shrug in response at, before trying to peer behind them for the visitors.

Since his records are to be scrubbed from the archives soon, Intelligence has been adamant about decreasing his interactions with the outside. The vice admiral must have really needed to insist to get anyone through. He’s admittedly a bit curious.

“Who—” Rosinante begins, before they step through the doorway.

It’s the woman who comes in first.

Her face and hair are no longer dust-matted, her clothes cleaned and mended. She looks half a decade younger than when Rosinante had seen her on that longboat, trying to hurtle from the railing—all the harsh lines and stresses of living in a war-torn country faded.

“Hello, sir,” she says, voice a little watery, like she’s been crying.

Rosinante stares blankly at her. At the two little shadows clinging to her waist, blinking up at him with large blue eyes.

“You saved their lives,” the woman starts stumbling, “All our lives. I don’t know how—I have no words, I—" She breaks off again, overwhelmed.

Rosinante is about to tell her that he understands what she means, that he’d gladly do it again, when the children peel away from her. They shuffle to his bed and smile at him.

In their hands is a dried chain of delicately braided daisies.

“Thank you, sir,” they say.

“That’s what you need,” Bellemere tells him later, polishing off his jello cup. Rosinante shifts his gaze away from the open sill. The garland hangs there, wavering in the breeze.

“What?”

Bellemere gestures behind her. The girls are giggling, accosting a frazzled Smoker now with his own flower ring.

“That,” she says, “A kid.”

“What?” He just manages to stifle a snort. “Me?”

“Why not?”

“Think you might be projecting again, ma‘am.”

“You’d make a great father,” Bellemere continues, ignoring him, “Not to mention you’ve looked happier in this one hour than the past several years combined.”

An incredulous blush surges over Rosinante’s face. He’s unsure as to why. It’s not like she’s called him out. He’s a goddamn mess and there are ghosts chanting his name. Becoming a parent is the last possible thing he’d ever planned on doing.

Bellemere sighs, before he can make the opinion known. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more wholesome.” She shakes her head. “At this rate, they may as well start another issue line for you. Grease that old propaganda machine, y'know? You’re only about three steps shy of that current Sora guy anyway.” The chair creaks as she scoots forward in it, head tilted at a ponderous angle.

“Rosinante. Solemn Savior of Children. You'd sell like hotcakes, can't you see it, cadet?"

In hindsight, maybe all she’d been aiming to do with any of this talk, kids or otherwise, was make him smile. He’d never been able to tell with her.

"Sure, ma'am,” he says and lifts the loose hair out of her face, "Whatever you say."

The sky is warm on his skin today.

Chapter Text

For almost thirteen years, he dreamed of his brother. He wishes he hadn't, but he had. Every night.

Every night.

Doffy is shadows and feathers and too many teeth. He is blood and fury under a wasteland sun.

"You can't stop me," he whispers, "Oh, Rosi, silly, sweet brother mine. You can't stop me."

"I have to try."

In so many ways, they are the same. Hair and hands and height. The breadth of their shoulders, the square of their jaws. They really could have been twins, save for that one thing in Doffy that's missing. That one thing he's maybe just never possessed.

"Give up," his brother tells him, "You're nothing."

And Rosinante never has the correct retort to throw back in Doffy's face. Maybe like any other boy, he still found a bit of gospel in his big brother's words after all. Still found them right in some inexplicable, horrible way.

Deep down, beneath the ugliness and confusion and regret of it all, he still loves Doffy. Still misses him something awful.

His brother had been the first face he'd ever known. The first hand he'd ever held. It's difficult not to miss a thing like that.

He'd tugged Rosinante along through everything, telling him what they would do and how things would be. As if Rosinante was some newly born infant wobbling along on rickety legs. It was so easy to follow where he led, so comforting to think he'd be protected.

Then Doffy was gone and Rosinante realized very suddenly that he'd have to decide what became of him for himself. He had to move on. He had to learn. He had to do the single thing his brother had never managed to and grow up.

It's hard, to say the least. Painful and baffling and wonderful and the single best thing that has ever happened to him.

He use to think his brother knew it all. But what could he have taught him about a kiss in the dark, a walk through a farmyard, a bird carved from ice or beer bottles clinking in a cavernous mess hall? What could he have told him about the meaning of family or the complexity of fairness? Or what ought to be marveled and how one ought to be loved?

Doffy survives on the fuel of his despair and the bitterness of his rage. There isn't a drop of hope left in him. He couldn't have taught him how to live if he'd wanted to.

In this, Rosinante will pity him always.

During his final year with the marines, he dreams of a black-haired boy.

Pale and sour-faced, knees skinned and dirt smudged, with eyes as haunting as his brother's use to be.

"Aren't you coming?" he asks, expectant, on the edge of grouchy, like he's been kept waiting an age.

Rosinante has not the first idea who he is, but the words are already on his lips, echoing back from some distant time. They feel right, all the way down to their core, and so he says, "Of course, kid."

The boy eyes him critically. After a beat of consideration, he raises his hands and Rosinante kneels down, pulls him close so they can hear the thrum of each other's hearts.

"I thought you'd forgotten me," the boy mutters, tiny arms around his neck, voice small against his ear.

And even though this will only be the mist of a dream when he wakes, for now Rosinante laughs. For now he can say what he means.

"Never," he whispers, "Never."