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Chapter Text

The sound drew Sakazuki’s attention away from the neat pile of work in progress on his desk. The thick ship walls around him, the yawning and creaking of their timbers, had distorted it, but whatever caused it had been close.

He frowned. The distant cry of an animal? Had somebody stepped on Dalmatian's tail again? But it would’ve had to be two times in a row. The rear end of his ballpen tapped on the paper as he attuned himself to his surroundings.

Rushed footsteps above him… then right before his chamber. Breathless laughter. Shrieking and cooing. A bird?! More interrupted footsteps zapping from one side of the corridor to the other… 

A curse escaped his lips as he bolted to his feet and slammed the door open. 

“Borsalino!” he shouted. The man was a couple of steps away, residual light from zapping around still gleaming off him, the grating smile wide in his face— as always. “Stop! It’s bad enough having to work here without you intentionally-”

He choked on his complaint. Something was wildly out of place.

Namely the little human that Borsalino was holding over a folded arm.

The thing sat on his hip, babbling and drooling. It wore a mini Navy Cadet’s uniform and a looping knitted scarf, as well as Borsalino’s beanie had, oversized on its head. When he moved it fell over its big eyes, and it giggled as it shoved it off his face, playing peek-a-boo.

“He-ello Sakazuki,” Borsalino said, his drawl taking unusuality out of the question, as if saying: yes, there’s a baby here, why are you asking? “Say hi to uncle Sakazuki, little friend… Oh, I mean…” Borsalino brought a thoughtful hand to his stubble, “Uncle Captain Sakazuki, my apo-ologies… ” 

Sakazuki clicked his tongue as “little friend” made an animal whee sound. Now was stretching its rear legs, kicking forward: Borsalino held it out with two hands under its arms to place it on the floor and it marched, opening its mouth wide, directly past Sakazuki’s legs and through the door. Perpetual movement, as all little things are. Even watching it was stressful.

“A baby,” Sakazuki grunted, his eyes inspecting Borsalino head to toe for clues, “Who the hell gave you a baby?”

“Ah…” Borsalino’s lips curled up, his voice mock forgetful, “I think… it was Vice Admiral Garp…” 

Sakazuki’s eye twitched. “Why would he give it to you?” 

“He said,” Borsalino gestured, stretching the words as though it were his damned job to avoid getting to the point, “since Barrels co-ouldn’t do the normal thing and find a woman to leave him with… I was put on baby duty…”

“Baby dut-” but a loud clank interrupted Sakazuki: he bolted toward the desk and there, his worst nightmare, pens and pencils scattered all around, staining what little of his paperwork had remained on desk; the rest was nicely spread on the floor.

Not the desk! How'd it get there so fast?! Triumphantly, the baby was examining the empty bronze cup Sakazuki used as a penholder, before smashing it a couple of times against the wooden surface and throwing it the same way.

Huge blue eyes smiled up at Sakazuki. Two tufts of hair right above the baby’s ears were curled up like devil horns. 

“Oh… co-ome here Drake-chan,” Borsalino quickly blinked in and out of his material state, and just like that— just like he kept doing— he’d invited himself into the Captain’s quarters. “Hm… yes… he has what Barrels called an, ah…, a climbing phase, I thi-ink…” 

The veins in his temple throbbed as he scooped up the brat and collected the paperwork. The chaos in his notes had him seething, but his sudden motions only prompted a chuckle from the little Drake. 

“That irresponsible dimwit,” he grunted through gritted teeth, “In a Navy ship… You have duties to tend to. Not to mention the safety of this brat. Home is where he should be. What’s everybody thinking?!”

Borsalino gave him a long shrug. 

“Home is where the heart is, isn’t i-it…?” Slouched, palms pointing up, he reached out to take Drake from Sakazuki, “He’s a Marine in the making, he knows that already… so he sneaked in to follow his dad, didn’t you…?”

Sakazuki’s lips pressed at the thought. This was no home, no home for a child with a seeming opportunity at a normal life, no home for anybody that hadn’t been life-hardened like him— like both of them. He’d strangle Barrels when he came across him, and Garp for that matter.

Are they out of their minds? Don’t they realize how fast something can happen to him, in case of an attack?

He blinked the unwanted memories away. Watched as Borsalino threw the boy in the air, and zapping right under him.

“He didn’t want to be alone for the holidays… I suppose…” Borsalino phased again right under the ceiling… threw the baby down then catching him the next second, Drake letting out a string of giggles— albeit interrupted, “A-ah… I think he’s getting tired…” 

“Stop,” Sakazuki shouted, hurrying to gather haki to his hands and catch the baby before Borsalino could zap away once more. He succeeded in snatching Drake away, giving the older man a shoulder, “You’re- you’re a danger.”

“Oh, no-o… don’t get angry, Captain… he’s too young to die…”

“I pronounce you unfit for baby duty,” Sakazuki flared his nostrils, and in a growl he added, "You need to be soft!”

Eager to wipe away the amused arch of Borsalino's eyebrows, Sakazuki flared heat to his chest, enough for it to be comfortable for the boy, and started to sway back and forth on his feet. The rhythm soon had the little thing cuddling against him, two little arms clutching the sides of his neck and slowly relaxing.

Still it was awake. Big eyes peered over Sakazuki’s forearm around the room, over at the slouched Borsalino. 

Smugness made a corner of Sakazuki’s mouth shoot up, “See?”

“Ooh… always perfect at everything,” Borsalino said wryly. Then, before Sakazuki could hush him, he heard the other man’s light steps on the wood, and the feeling of two arms circling his abdomen had him falling silent. So did the caress of his cheek on the top of Sakazuki’s back. Borsalino was seeking the heat, enjoying it. “Mmm… why aren't you ever so soft with me-e…?”

Sakazuki found a sudden interest in the wall, the wooden ridges creaking and breathing around them as the ship sailed on. 

He shook his head to himself. Time and time again, he was proved to be the only adult on board.

Chapter Text

New Marineford was still sterile, still uninhabited. Although Borsalino knew each of his men on a first-name basis, a feel of anonymity still hung between the fortress' walls. It lacked the familiarity of the old Headquarters, something that only years of human warmth and conversation could hope to bring.

From his big office window, through the smoke swirling up from his cigarette, he watched the outside. A winter sky to infinity, as white as bones. Almost the year's end, it was the perfect time to cleanse, to turn the page and leave the monster of war in the past…

Oh well, the past.

Borsalino wouldn't say he didn't care about it, but nearly.

"S-Sir, Admiral," came the voice, tense and brittle, from the office door. 

"Hm…?" Borsalino raised an eyebrow slowly, turning to look over his sunglasses. The young man was sweating, clearly just back from a run… or had he bolted up rows and rows of stairs?

Smiling around his cigarette, Borsalino signaled for him to enter with an outstretched, amicable hand.

"Co-ome in, come in… Officer…?"

Ah, but…, yes, he knew this one. The hair gave him away, pink and messy under his glasses— the ones his old mentor Garp had probably forbidden him from wearing to battle ever again, lest someone take his ugly duckling for weak.

Borsalino remembered, of course he did. Hard to forget the little voice of dissidence in the face of Sakazuki’s violent, relentless, advance on the enemy. 

"Officer… Coby," he continued. He knew it was Captain Coby now, but the young man didn't correct him. "What can I do for yo-ou…?" 

Then he set his eyes on the book Coby was holding. His bored grin crooked upward.

He knew it… that book with the worn cover. He'd been reading it just that morning, in fact. 

"You forgot this outside, Sir," Coby said, his eyes shut tightly, "It wasn't me who found it, sir, so - well it's getting late -"

Just then, something slipped from between the pages. It floated toward the floor with the grace and precision of the first leaves of fall. Borsalino could have zapped forward, too, in time to catch it. But he didn't, maybe out of slowness to react, maybe because he knew exactly what it was and couldn't help his amusement at the young Marine's face.

"I'm sorry," Coby mumbled. He was covering his face with the book now, "I didn't see anything." 

Borsalino stood up, chair scratching the floor. His steps were nothing if not calm, slow, as he approached Coby and hunched over to pick up the offending piece of paper from the floor.

He narrowed his eyes fondly at the memory. His own face peered back at him— younger, but wearing the same smile— so did two other dark pairs of eyes. Albeit they looked less than thrilled. 

No, Kuzan and Sakazuki hadn't been too happy to lose that bet.

"Oh, but why-y the long faces…?" he remembered telling them, full of mock admiration, "You look so good like this. Here, let me retouch the beard…"  

From under the thick, white locks of his fake beard, he could still perfectly picture Sakazuki wincing. "There's a special layer of hell reserved for you, Borsalino, " then he'd pulled his red Christmas hat down to his nose. "There. I don't want to see it."  

"I don't know, man, I think the antlers look good on me," Kuzan had said. He was more collaborative, had even applied the red make-up on his nose himself. It was good. Having a sense of humour about oneself, not like the other grump. 

Distracted for a moment, grinning at the memories, Borsalino noticed he hadn't dismissed the boy. He took the book from him, shrugged nonchalantly, and waved the picture in front of his shocked eyes. 

"Ah… I regret to sa-ay… I do think you've seen it, officer," he said, malice glinting in his eye. In front of the picture of young Fleet Admiral Sakazuki and his everlasting rival dressed as Santa Claus and a reindeer, he wasn't sure if Coby would burst out laughing or crying or both, "Don't wo-orry… maybe I'll put it here," he gestured to the wall, drawing an imaginary square with his fingertips, "Then you won't be alone…" 

Coby let out a choked laugh.

And he, indeed, was trying very hard to keep his question to himself, but in the end couldn't help himself. 

"Sir, the three of you… were friends?"

Borsalino paused. 

Friends… a word that cut more than he had expected. He hummed through the lump of emotion in his throat as he looked away from those young faces, the smiling eyes, set on the stars.

"Ah… not quite," he said, too fast to be true. 

Borsalino didn't care about dwelling. He moved fast and forward. He freed the book from Coby’s grasp and vanished, reappeared next to the bookcase where he pushed it, and the hidden picture, back in place. 

Buried the memories where they belonged. 

Chapter Text

For Kuzan, this is so… other.

The measuring tape flies around his neck, then across his arm. When it's over, he rolls the cuffs of the crisp dark blue shirt the way he's always done, unbuttoning and then pulling at them. He frowns when a hidden pin he's dalied to completely remove scratches at his skin, and catches the tailor observing his every movement with avian eyes over her point-ended glasses.

He scratches the back of his head, and draws his eyes away uncomfortably.

Everything in this shop looks polished. Wallpaper, furniture, fabric samples… all of it matched in a way Kuzan is unable to define, and that makes him immensely wary. Even the festive decoration and lights have something… pre-packaged to their warmth. 

His reflection on the full-body mirror looks more tired and puffy-eyed than he'd remembered. Behind him, he sees Borsalino, sitting at the fancy armchair and drinking water— with some fresh green herb Kuzan's never seen put in water before— from a nearby, ornate dispenser. 

"It seems a bit too loose," the tailor says without meeting Kuzan's eye. "No, we've fitted the Admirals in Marineford for generations, rarely do they measure under three hundred. What do you think, sir?"

She's not addressing him, but Borsalino. Of them both, he's the only Admiral— for now. Kuzan has already accepted the promotion, and hell. He's beginning to wonder if it's worth it.

"Mmm… I don't kno-ow… I'd have to see you try the white one again…" 

"I'm good," Kuzan says, unbuttoning the dark shirt under the neck and sliding it overhead. He's tried on multiple variations of white dress shirts and pants and he still can't tell left from right.

"Was that the broadcloth or linen…?" 

"It's, uh…" Kuzan looks dumbly at the clothing article in his hand, then looks up again, "The blue one." 

Borsalino eyes him from the side, lips pursed, hermetical.

"Ah… that will look perfect with a vest in white, yes… we'll have it made for you, and I'll pick the fabrics, don't wo-orry…" his pat on Kuzan's bare shoulder promises that they'll be over soon, but then he's waving him over from the side, two ties in almost the same shade of light yellow folded in his hands. 

Kuzan sighs. He guesses Borsalino has a point in that one has to look the part. That  a first impression is everything, and presence needs to match— all but flaunt, in the older man's case— one's status. Even if deep down it's all blah blah blah.

He's barely, if ever, paid attention to what he wears. Just insofar as it looked cool, ragged, perhaps even a bit aggressive— sometimes his only protection, having grown up on the streets. All of this broadcloth or whatever means fuck all to him.

Well, he'd also thought it was impossible for Sakazuki to show up for work wearing something other than his smelly hoodies and joggers, and look at him now. 

"Mmm…" Borsalino holds up the paler yellow tie against the deep blue shirt Kuzan has been trying on, "What do you think?"

"Ah… I don't know. I think yellow's your colour, man." 

Then again. He eyes the bags in different forms and shapes, with Borsalino's acquisitions for the holidays. Watches and shoes and fancy aged drinks, of the kind you don't drink straight from the bottle. Maybe it's good that at least one of them has an eye for that stuff. 

Borsalino rejoins him in front of the mirror, flattens his own dark green shirt with a swipe of a hand while he holds up the new, still folded tie between two fingers. 

"It's mo-ost definitely my colour," he agrees, and glances slyly at Kuzan, "Yellow it is." 

Chapter Text

“Na- Nami, come back,” Tashigi says from the bonfire, her tone hitching to a shout. 

The improvised celebration around them muffles Tashigi’s voice. The island’s people are throwing a party together with the Strawhats in typical post-adventure fashion.

The bandits they wanted to chase off the winter island are now safe behind bars; Smoker may be gritting his teeth at it all, but the fact is he's sitting next to Monkey D. Luffy and a bountiful of roasted meat, his smoke mixing with the multiple pyres’. The wood they’re burning comes from the forest, making space for new life once the snow melts. Civilians and pirates exchange stories, toast with hot chocolate and rum, sway to the tune of that skeleton’s violin, marvel starry-eyed at Franky the cyborg. The Strawhats are fun and freedom, excitement and adventure. They take this atmosphere everywhere they go and soak the places and people in it. 

But… that lightness hasn’t reached Tashigi tonight. Clutching her own cup with tense hands, she’s found her eyes drawing inevitably toward the Cat Burglar Nami time and time again, right until the moment Nami has gotten to her feet and left.

For somebody that occupies such an inordinate amount of time in Tashigi’s thoughts— embarrassing, she knows, given that they’ve seen each other only so rarely— it is difficult to even strike a conversation with her. Tashigi has never had the best way with words; too blunt, maybe, her blades being the sharp ones, and a warrior’s communication skillset doesn’t really come in handy when said warrior has a crush— especially on somebody so gracile, and effortlessly femenine.

Perhaps she's too exhausted. One mission has rolled into the other, and she starts to feel drained, her limbs numb from the cold and not doing precisely what she wants. 

She's even tried to breathe deeply and accidentally caught ash to the throat, which had her coughing in a fit that made the ship’s little doctor ask if she was okay. Not the kind of attention you want while gathering nervous courage, when your knees are weak the way they only get before a fight, never during. 

And now… Nami has just hopped to her feet, orange glow kissing her figure before she turns around and goes, hurries toward the treeline. 

“Wa- wait!” Tashigi repeats— out of the blue, for anybody not in her head, the sudden change of temperature dampening her sunglasses, the whole world melting together.

“Then catch me!” comes the playful reply.

She blinks. Did that happen?

Tashigi manages to keep it together. One heavy step of a winter boot after the other, solid on the frosted ground, give her some grip. 

And like that, a game is afoot: a Marine’s instinct blooms under her skin. Tashigi may be having no luck with words tonight. So she’ll chase Nami’s fire the only way she knows.

A few steps away, mounds of snow cling to the fir branches, sparkling with moonlight, changing their shapes. Their silhouettes call legends about trolls and other creatures to mind. 

There's a cabin here, with a steep roof and tender-orange windows. And there, at the rectangle of light at the door, Nami is waiting for her. The tiniest flakes of snow— so small you could mistake them for dust, float all around her.

“I have a present for you,” the Cat Burglar announces, her coat already slipped off, her shoulders bare. When Tashigi enters, the hot air engulfs her like a dragon’s breath. Nami’s still-cool fingers gently push her glasses up to her forehead. 

Her face flares red. The lips are still too numb from the run in the cold to really react.

“A present?” Tashigi mumbles. 

Nami smiles with mischievous eyes. Signals toward the fireplace, the cottage furniture behind her. 

“I've heard your boss has to force you to take time off lately,” she says, and without warning she’s already behind Tashigi, perilously close hands waiting to receive her coat, “I’d bet a few bellis that you've forgotten what day it is!”

Confused, cheeks burning, Tashigi starts flapping through her mental calendar.

“This is your present,” Nami says, “A whole night to yourself. Fireplace, blanket, the whole shebang. But get your boots off, silly!”

The comfort of that warmth, of that touch, is almost enough to make Tashigi forget the outside world, as if closing the door behind her would make it disappear.

“What… you came up with this?” she asks, at a loss, “Why?” 

Nami’s mouth quirks up. “Why? Would you prefer to go back and sleep on your ship now?” she throws her hair back over her shoulder, the other palm stretching playfully, “Or should I? I can go away…” 

Tashigi doesn't know if Nami should stay or go, really. But she knows how to find out.

She still has a determined frown in her eyes when she puts her lips on the other woman’s, and soon, she’s tasting the gloss on that smile. The tender pull of those arms around her wet coat has her feeling silly, and lucky, but especially way too warm.

Chapter Text

For the World Nobles nothing exists beyond the walls of this palace; the outside could be sinking in chaos, a violent revolution brewing or a million wars and illnesses breaking out and spreading, but that won't stop them from dancing.

They're not given to worrying, or to thinking. The world can take care of itself.

Inside, the masquerade goes on like a dream.

Thirty years before, Borsalino stepped into this world almost by accident. His humble origins are nothing to talk about in the company of world leaders, countesses, dukes: in a way he's masked, too, his facade odd and giddy and rather dumb. Though, if one looks around— the masks turning the faces into burlesque things, bizarre things— the best lies have a drop of the truth inside. 

The rooms in this long palace are as high as the sky. It's dark through the tall stained glass, burning lamps casting mirages on the mosaic of gowns and suits that are the dancers. Blue is the theme of the first room, blue curtains and windows. Borsalino's attention flutters between colour and music and drinks, and the occasional, disjointed bout of conversation. A whirl of entertainment as empty as his cup. 

It is close to midnight, and in the sideline, scanning his eyes boredly around a heated and lively crowd, Borsalino becomes aware of her.

Her gown is a shock of black in the coloured whirlwind, her mask wine red. He can see her curved, thick eyelashes, and her eyes: the kind that see through him, that have seen far beyond the confines of this city and read far more than the Celestial Dragons' censored history. He knows the sensuous way she moves. With the same silky precision that she would draw a knife to his throat. 

Her hand is soft as velvet on his, her steps toward the dance floor catlike. The pull, irresistible. The smell of her hair, like flowers and cigarettes, takes him back thirty years. Back to his youth as an unscrupulous cadet, hungry for risk. Back to the taste of seasalt on her skin.

He knows that tune, playful and atonal. Their steps chase each other in a perfect cycle, borne more of intuition than practice. 

"Where do you come from, milady?" he asks, pretending he sees blue blood when looking at her. 

From under the crimson, her voice is wise, bold. 

"From the Valley of Gods," she says. 

Scandalous. 

Around them, whispers and questions begin to fall like the first drops of rain. The tumult is unquiet.

Another voice soon requires Borsalino's attention. A Vice Admiral's martial, dry rasp, breaking the spell. He's sorry to interrupt, he says in a hush. A lady of royalty has gone missing as she entered the premises. The matter requires Admiral Kizaru's full attention. 

From somewhere deep in the palace rises the first chime of the clock. 

Its voice is a blunt strike of ebony. It silences the crowd and the music until it's counted to twelve. Even Borsalino feels it reverberating deep in his bones.

He looks her way. 

As all pirates do, like the Red Death leaving a trail of silence and destruction in her wake… she's gone.  

Chapter Text

The pink letter is a similar hue to Fullbody's hair— and his cheeks, he's sure, he's spent the whole day blushing and not just from the cold. He's read and reread it a bunch of times, scrutinising every inch of paper for signs of forgery or deception.

No luck, though. The thing seems legit. 

Clutching it in his fist, he recoils. His other palm falls on the tablecloth, his wide shoulders hunched over. How can this be his luck?! 

It's been a clear winter evening at Headquarters after some uneventful patrolling out at the sea. A couple of hours back, he came home to put some clean clothes on, fully intending to continue following up with his cases and a few other assignments from Hina at the office.

But then… when he opened his mailbox, this tiny piece of paper turned his whole world upside-down. 

I'll meet you under the mistletoe. 8pm

The perfume, the heart-dotted "I", the kiss imprinted in dark red lipstick... His heart has been drumming ever since, its rhythm right there with every breath.

Hina! Who else could it have been? And when the hell did this change happen?! And how the hell could he have missed it?! 

He damns himself, pacing through the rooms in his tidy little house without seeing them. Pokes his head through the kitchen window: no, the world outside isn't in flames, Hell has not frozen yet.

Weeks ago, he would have regarded this as a miracle. But now, the mixed feelings are a knot in his chest. 

Damn it… gotta face it up like a man, he thinks. He slings his lined denim jacket from the coat hanger and shakes it free, zips it all the way to his jaw. Then slams the front door open. He keeps his eyes fixed on the frosted ground as he presses his pace, as he thinks.

Not even days ago he'd had a conversation with Jango about this, about the way he— they — feel about her. That Hina, admirable and beautiful and sophisticated and strong Hina, has so much in common with what Fullbody has always wanted to be and he could've been mistaking it for romance. That, after the puppy love has receded and left way to admiration…, he hasn't ever been himself around Hina, not in private, the way he really is. Way too self-conscious, too star-struck, too centered on her and if she's looking and what she's thinking, a puppy caught in the ecstatic joy of its owner returning forever. 

He's made his way to the plaza now, starts pushing himself up the stairs to Headquarters three steps at a time, the sweat turning immediately cold. At one of the sober back porches, the usually running water frozen, mistletoe hangs under the wood— one international tradition of many, as varied as the origins of all Marines that train and work here— and frost lines the tiny needles with small, sparkling crystals.

Fullbody shifts his eyes around. His lips and throat too dry. 

And… grimaces.

Oh no, not now, he thinks when he sees Jango grimacing right back at him through his rose-tinted glasses. It's bad enough to have to apologize to Hina and refuse a kiss from her, but please not in front of Jango, don't make him realise that she… 

That she… 

Wheels take a moment to turn and click inside of Fullbody's head before he's shifting his eyes back to Jango. He, himself, looks rather shifty under his coat and hat. 

"Wait a minute," Fullbody speaks out. He withdraws the letter from his pocket, swatting at it. "Do you… do you dot your I's with hearts?" He says, the pale of his skin uncanny. Jango strolls closer, "Lipstick? Really?" 

The question causes Jango to bite at his lower lip while making a sound like he's just bitten a lemon. 

"Well, I like to look good sometimes, you know?" he says, displaying the palms of his hands, "...I see how that could have been misleading." 

The silence between them is tense, eager. 

"Well, that's- that's good, actually," Fullbody coughs up a laugh, and the corners of Jango's smile quirk up, "Much better. Than expected, I mean." 

"Okay…" Jango says, and both look upward, then back at each other. 

Fullbody guesses it's his turn to count to three... 

Chapter Text

Drake rolled slightly to the side, strained by a sleeping position kept for too long. The desire to stay asleep still weighed down on his eyelids, and for a moment, he surrendered. 

So that was what it felt to sleep without a worry in the world… True, sometimes the dreams still shook his head like an electric jolt or gave him the physical sensation that he was floating away from his body, adrift with no way to stop. But not the last days, not since arriving at New Marineford.

He sought the warmth of Coby’s body next to his, but he was gone. Drake's still-healing arm stretched to fend around soft fabrics. Yarn, cotton, soft and cozy to the touch, the sheets and blankets neatly tucked back in place but still warm with Coby’s presence.

Breathing through his nose brought a sweet buttery smell from downstairs. From that angle he could see the window, which followed the shape of the roof: outside, the very early morning sky was white with moon... and full of whirling movement. It took a moment, a blink, for him to understand it was snow he was looking at.  His mind fell back to the North Blue in his childhood.

Tipping over from the realm of sleep, he sat up. Pain from the war of Onigashima still soured every motion, but slowly, day by day, it receded. His steps downstairs became way more agile than the previous day's, more fluid.

He slipped a pair of socks on. Thick ones, blue and patterned. No one would get cold feet at Coby’s place... Drake ran that risk more literally than figuratively.   

Coby's place was full of objects everywhere. Candles and books, and small paintings he'd been given, or a nice flower picked up somewhere and left to dry. Lots of small moments kept on display. A New Year's arrangement hung on the door to the living room, promising to clean the ashen atmosphere of the year past. Light was indirect, and Coby could often be seen turning the little lamps on and off in a succession. But now, they were all dim. Except for the fire, creaking already, the smell of hearth and wood and hot chocolate meshing in the living room.

Coby's silhouette was cut dark against the window. Drake moved in slow steps, not intending to interrupt the moment, but the slightest turn of Coby's upper body signalled that he'd heard— or rather felt— him sneaking up. 

Coby raised a finger to his lips. 

"Snow," he whispered. For Drake, snow was indifferent at best and adverse at worst. But he surrendered to this new meaning when he saw Coby smiling, excited, as if the boy within had been allowed to peek out.

The fire cast an orange glow on the curve of his cheek, the blue early morning light dancing aflame on his eyes. Fire and ice at once, and there was not one thing about him that Drake didn't need. 

Without a word, every gesture slow and steady, Drake allowed himself to wrap his aching arms about him, seeking that shared warmth. 

Chapter Text

Overnight, the head office has transformed. Lucci steps in followed by Hattori, ever-so-loyal, his flapping tickling the side of Lucci's face before settling on his shoulder. 

Artificial warmth breathes down on them. Stussy is humming, dancing around, giving that space the famed "feminine touch". There's candles and aged, glittery orbs decorating a tree, and behind it, Kaku steps down from hanging some thick fake pine garlands above the windows and pats his hands together, his sign for the work well done.

They hadn't really celebrated anything— other than their accomplishments— when they were in the CP-9 together. But now, sitting in Mary Geoise, things are different. The Celestial Dragons' quasi-religious celebrations, the so-called spirit, needs to plague every corner of the Holy City. 

Lucci's serious expression hasn't changed, and Stussy catches it. She flashes him a peach-pink smile: friendly, deadly, in a way that seems a bit familiar but he can't quite place.

"Good morning to you too, grump," she says.

Kaku has his white cap pulled almost all the way down to his long nose. 

"This boy doesn't feel much of the holiday spirit," he chuckles, "Not yet, at least…"

Stussy giggles, her voice bubbles in a champagne glass. Lucci's eyes shift from one to the other. He's missed the joke, not like he'd laugh. 

"It's a holy and solemn time," Lucci says, reserving his real thoughts for himself. 

He's ready to gather the files he needs from the archive room, when Stussy motions toward the desk as if she were pinching salt, "Oh! I almost forgot. The post came in."

On Lucci's shoulder, Hattori coos excitedly. But even without the cue, Lucci's already seen it. 

A tiny box. Black, a discreet ribbon like a peony lacing it.

Many ideas flood him, the first one being now he knows to what he owes the amused looks from his two colleagues (and who it is Stussy keeps reminding him off with her playfulness). Well, Lucci's nerves are stone. He won't give them the satisfaction of finding out what's inside.

Not even the satisfaction of knowing he may be curious. 

That idiot. Lucci pokes his nose up in the air, ignoring the excited ruffling of feathers at his shoulder. Gifting me jewellery… something that small has to be jewellery. His eyes shift to the nearby drawer, which he pulls it open to take the transponder snail he needs for work. Then back to the tiny box. That old Admiral is letting this get to his head… I wonder how much he spent. 

 Kizaru may be too extravagant at times but he certainly has an eye for aesthetics. Lucci can picture the man as clear as, well, light. Cigarette in hand, arm around Lucci’s shoulders, his mellow voice made of pure malice. "Well, why didn't you send it back instead of wearing it, Rob Lucci…?"

It doesn't matter. He stands up, the weight of the transponder snail firm in his hand, and starts leaving under the scrutiny of the other two.

A coo of protest rises from his shoulder: Hattori's wings slap at him in excitement and protest, and Lucci attempts to wave him away. Prickly toes wrap around his fingers, the sound hitching from delighted to demanding.

"Stop it at once," Lucci says. The answer is more petulant chirping. Hattori loves Kizaru, of course. For one, the Admiral doesn't pay attention to discipline when giving him treats, and he thinks that Lucci's ventriloquism is the best thing to ever grace the four seas— which always gives Hattori the chance to really shine. 

"Fine. Fine," he says, convincingly razor-sharp. "If you're going to be like that."

He picks the tiny velvety case up, and cuts the ribbon off with a nail. Lifts it open. 

The whole world goes cold around him. 

"Oi. Are you going to show us?" Lucci hears through the excited cooing. But he hardly processes it. 

Show them? No. He'd rather shove it off the window. 

It's a luxurious, gold-black, embroidered, pigeon-sized tie with actual fucking gilded cuff links for Hattori. 

Lucci snaps the lid closed and shoos the teary-eyed pigeon away.

"You're too soft," he mumbles, scooping up his files and turning his back on any and all questions before hurrying away. 

Chapter Text

Smoker's knuckle hovered over the wooden door. The unusual hesitation pulled at his muscles, tensed them frozen.

Without looking around, he knew the sight of himself in the middle of that empty office hallway would raise more than one eyebrow; let the idiots at HQ wonder, but he was irritated at himself for wasting time. Nostrils flared, another wave of unwelcome doubt flooding his mind. The grasp of his other hand around the package tightened.

"If you're going to, it should be something personal," that was what Hina had said over the second beer they'd had together two evenings ago; her voice above the noise so confident as to sound aggressive, though, to Smoker, it only reached blunt, "Nothing for the office. Does he smoke?" 

“Nah,” Smoker spat, “Wouldn’t need to get creative if he did.” 

“Give him something he can wear,” she said, the intuition sharp in her catlike eyes. “Something that says you see him.” 

From the other side of the door, Kuzan spoke.

“Just come in,” his voice a deep, low rumble.

Smoker cursed under his breath as he slung the door to the side. The cigars in his mouth were out, a courtesy he didn’t always have; tatami flooring compelled him to remove his boots. The office was spacey, and a chilling breeze came through the wide-open windows and traveled up the skin under Smoker’s open jacket.

Kuzan was in the process of sitting up from the floor, his clothes all crumpled. Handsome almond-shaped eyes peered from under his sleeping mask and Smoker. 

“Hey,” Smoker said. It was a familiar frustration to see him sleeping on the job with a tower of pending paperwork on his desk, but contrary to many colleagues and subordinates, Smoker had come to understand it wasn’t laziness that drove Kuzan to be that way. He just ran on empty reserves most of the time.  

“Just napping after my, uh, after my… round with the bike,” Kuzan waved any potential protests away. Smoker didn’t need to say anything; he’d heard it all before.

“Happy new,” he grunted instead, and Kuzan scoffed, both of them not without their fair share of irony. His gaze lowered toward the present wrapped in his hand and, finding no way to put it that didn't sound silly, threw it forward. "Here. Sorry it's belated."

Kuzan caught it in the air.

He changed, lit up.

"Arara! Well, this is, uh, unexpected."

Smoker nodded once. Acknowledging the strangeness— all but impatient. 

It took another pause and reassessment for Kuzan to start working the wrapping paper with a carefulness that seemed atypical in his huge, tempered hands. It wouldn't be the first time that Smoker noticed that, nor the first that he fleetingly asked himself if that was the way he did… hell, things, the things that were important, when nobody was looking.

And in much the same way, with Kuzan distracted, the longing returned. Permanently tensing Smoker's brow. 

A longing that had presented itself a few years ago. A troublesome cadet, Smoker never stopped standing his ground, not even if it meant he attracted the wrong kind of attention from his superiors. But Kuzan… he'd respected that. He was more than he seemed. 

The attraction lingered and consolidated like a glacier under the melting snow. But he'd never gone a step further, 

Plain grey paper peeled back to reveal the present. Kuzan lifted the gloves, big and linked at the cuffs, and a scarf in a blue that complimented Kuzan's skin and hair— according to Hina, at least, who still was against the suggestion because why would an iceman need gloves. 

Smoker harrumphed. Felt like he should start justifying himself at the silence that had taken over, although he swallowed his grievances when the Admiral finally broke into a grin.

“Thank you. No one ever buys me these, you know.”

Told you so, he thought toward an imaginary Hina.

“I appreciate that it’s not, uh… real fur, and all that,” Kuzan tumbled to his feet, and still spared another look over at Smoker. He’d wrapped the scarf around his shoulders already and left it sitting there as he approached a tall cupboard, the sound of porcelain clinking inside. Then he said something that came out all muffled. “Want to drink the morning coffee with me?”

Smoker thought he hadn't heard right. 

“Huh? What are you-?”

“I need to wake up,” Kuzan said casually, then let out a yawn. Carafe and cups were hanging from two of his fingers, “Come, join me. Tell me about your plans for the year.”

This time without hesitation, he went to smoke to join the other man. It was a start, he supposed… or maybe the start had been all those years ago and now, at last, he'd be jumping to action.