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There was little in Doflamingo’s life that he did not have a hand on. Be it his country, his family, or his business: he was in control. That single power any worthwhile human would die for to possess—and they have. Many, in fact, and several by Doflamingo’s own hand.
For his control—his power—is something he was never willing to forfeit again.
Not after a fated decision was made above his head, held within the hand that would gently ruffle his sun-kissed hair, forever changing his life. He had no say. No argument to give as the life he was born into was stripped away like soiled clothing at the end of the day. He felt just as bare; standing beside his family, all now naked of their title and much more.
His tower was crumbling in front of his eyes; a stone at a time falling to the ground.
First went his mother. She was crumbling too, shaking with a sickness that only this new world could give her. When she drew her last breath, held in the blankets that scratched his skin and made him sneeze, it was almost too much.
Too much over nothing at all.
His tower became his personal hell, hung by his arms alongside his father and brother. Screams washed over him, ringing in his mind while the fire grew around them. Arrows pierced at them, tore at skin that was never meant to be touched at all, and from it bled red. Not that he could see it—not that he could see anything anymore.
His previous life was now dark, sealed away by the cloth tied tightly around his face before they threw him from the window. His tower was coming down faster now, with pieces falling in large chunks to the ground, and when he screamed—when that power came from him like lightning in his veins, it nearly toppled.
Afterwards, the tower stopped crumbling, if only for a moment.
Instead, as he held the gun to his father’s head, it started to rebuild. One stone at a time, while his finger hesitated on the trigger pressed against the blonde hair he would learn to loathe. Stone by stone, wall by wall, it built up enough that he felt safe again. The blood against his barrel made marks like decorations on the wall and he welcomed the color.
Rosinante disappeared, then, taking a large chunk of the structure with him. Whether he was dead or alive, Doflamingo wasn’t sure of, and he didn’t have the time to ponder it. His tower was growing quickly, held together by the hands of his new subordinates lifting it to higher places than it ever rose before.
This was good. Grand, even, while wings were built onto it to hold his new family. What a gorgeous place to reside, protected and held within a fortress that would keep him safe once more. Nothing could tear it down.
Nothing, it seems, except for the man that helped build the base.
When Rosinante revealed himself, bleeding and huffing in the snow on the island Minion, Doflamingo felt his structure falter for the first time in over a decade. He could feel stones starting to loosen once again and the cold air creeping inside. It burnt against his skin, as well as his heart, to see his brother like this.
What burnt worse was perhaps the realization of Law’s disappearance. Doflamingo was missing a large part without realizing it, thinking that it was still there in the back corner of his solitude. Rosinante had taken that as well. He took a lot of things, but in the end, Doflamingo took the most.
Another blood splattered barrel. Another wall that crumbled. These were things Doflamingo didn’t want to get used to again, but this time, the fix wasn’t as easy as before. Whereas his father’s death opened doors for him to build again, his brother’s only continued to tear away at his frame.
Those stones he’d had for ages, almost worn smooth from everything he’s been through, were shaking.
Nothing if not resilient, Doflamingo ignored them and built it back. Over the years, as things would break or fall, he would lean on the family and they would always help him. Building it bigger and better, his tower became impenetrable. He was impenetrable.
Or so he thought, until they came, guns blazing across the scape of Dressrosa.
They were strong, yes, but Doflamingo believed in his tower and the protection it gave. That the walls that now stood firm for thirteen years would live to see a fourteenth, regardless of a potential need to do repairs. What he didn’t know was that Law left a piece of himself behind, and when that symbol, that word “Corazon” showed itself across his back… everything would shift.
Law was never going to come back. He was never playing games all this time. He was waiting, lurking in the shadows of those places Doflamingo refused to touch, and he brought lightning. Hot, crackling lightning that glowed green to the touch as it pierced his skin. This time, when he felt pain, his eyes were not covered.
This time, he saw the blood.
He watched it wash the walls of his fortress as it came crashing down, destroyed by the power of a giant fist and an emotion he hadn’t seen in a long time. One of desperation mixed with care, twisted into a source of power that is dangerous to wield. Doflamingo knew about power.
Doflamingo had power.
While he lies with his back against the wooden floor, hands held in shackles that sing the song of the sea, he forfeits it unwillingly. But even now, his tower still stands: two stones high and smoldering from the extinguished flames. It’s never been this low before in his life, but that doesn’t bother him in the slightest.
For he has built his tower many times, and he will do it again.