Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Rosinante’s seat in the banquet hall is to his brother’s right, though he often wishes it otherwise. In general, he’s always flourished more away from the public eye, in one-on-one conversations and subterfuge, small connections as opposed to the show. Once, long ago, their mother had called him ‘shy.’
It is not shyness that makes him wish for elsewhere in this moment. Beside him, on the center throne, Doflamingo is dressed in his best — White and magenta suit and waistcoat all exquisitely tailored, his mantle of feathers falling easily over his shoulders. His eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, and his mouth twisted into an excited, gleeful grin. The Dressrosi court shines in all its best splendor, waiting to welcome its guests. As attractive as a lure. On purpose, of course — everything must be done deliberately, here.
Rosinante ducks his head, ever a contrast to his square-shouldered brother. He’s dressed in white and red, his own mantle black and equally feathered, his face smudged with traditional makeup. There is a goblet of something in front of him, but he does not drink.
Doflamingo takes a deep pull from his own cup, holds it carelessly to the side as a white-clad servant strides forward to refill it from a pitcher. He throws a smile in Rosinante’s direction, deceptively lazy in his gestures and movements.
“Not going to indulge, little brother?" he flicks his free hand towards the heavy goblet. "This is a celebration, after all. A happy occasion." Around them, the hall buzzes as if in agreement. It is filled with anyone who is anyone in high Dressrosa social circles, nobility and wealthy merchants, all dressed in their best — all pastels with flecks of jewel tones, this season’s fashion— and complementing the gold and marble and brocade of the room as if they themselves are a part of the decoration.
Doflamingo raises his own goblet, now once again full without him even needing to ask, to his younger brother, in a mocking and deeply private toast. "Drink," he commands, "to his future happiness. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?"
Rosinante looks at the filled cup. He shakes his head, but does not answer verbally — he can’t answer verbally. He looks his brother in the eyes, and raises his hands instead.
‘I will not,’ Rosinante signs. ‘The wine burns my throat.’
Doflamingo stares back for a long, long second. The words sit in the air, heavy and dangerous in their implications.
And then Doflamingo turns away, back to the hovering servant. "Bring my brother water," he snaps, "and be sure that everyone remembers what strong flavors do to his condition. "
Rosinante apologies silently to the girl, as she sketches out a terrified curtsy and then flees to follow the command. He needs to check in on the kitchen staff, when he has a moment of free movement and solitude. Maybe he can get something nice set up for them, after all that’s going on. They deserve it.
Doflamingo tosses back another mouthful of the wine, and that is when the herald makes himself known at the top of the stairs. His staff strikes the ground, once, twice, and then a third time. The echoing thuds silence the entire hall at once.
Rosinante’s brother grins at him. "Let’s get started, then," he says, too delighted. "Show time."
Rosinante exhales. He sits a bit straighter in his chair, pulls his black mantle closer around his shoulders. Show time, his brother said. The opening act. They had to set up the players. He turns his eyes, trained for subterfuge, to the stairs and the great double doors behind them.
The herald opens his mouth, and his voice carries over the marble walls and the eager, hungry ears of the guests.
"Announcing," he projects, "the third son of the Nation-State of Goa, Heartchild of Shanks, called Red-Hair, Bloodchild of Dragon, and beloved by his brothers: Monkey D. Luffy, called Straw Hat, and Household."
The double doors are pulled open, and a tightly-knit group sails in. Leading it is the young man who holds those titles, Straw Hat Luffy himself.
He seems small, to hold such a heavy position, so many lofty titles on his shoulders. He stands the second shortest of his company, whip thin and round-faced, a scar kissing under one eye. He’s dressed in a way customary to his nation — a loose, open-chested shirt, the cuffs untailored, and simple black pants. Over the shirt, he wears a bright red vest, equally open and loose. There’s a circlet made of fabric wrapped around his head but under his hair, almost bandana-like, holding a single red teardrop gem in the center of his forehead. On a string around his neck hangs the straw hat which is so often his chosen epithet.
Fanned out around him, three on either side, is his Household. That is a very specifically Goan custom — Rosinante assumes it’s similar to a harem, and feels a touch of distaste. On either side of the prince stands two men of equal height but opposite builds. One is rough-sketched, broad at the shoulders and barrel-chested, his hair short and a shocking green, one ear pierced three times and one eye missing. His hand keeps listing to one hip, as if expecting an absent weapon. The other man is all limbs, long and toned and willowy, hair blond and falling artfully into his face. Even his one visible eyebrow seems to do a graceful little twirl. They are both also dressed in the style of Goa — loose, brightly colored shirts, open at the neck. Though Straw Hat carries no weapons, as they’re forbidden in at this event, these two seem to neatly stand in their place.
Behind each of them is a stunningly beautiful woman, equally contradicting, also dressed in a way so unfamiliar to the Dressrosi court — colorful wrap dresses or above-the-knee skirts. An older woman, tall and straight-backed, dark hair shoulder length and equally pin-straight. Her brows and nose are strong, her face serene, and Rosinante knows immediately not to trust her. Her mirror, behind the green-haired man, is shorter, younger, more softly curved. A cascade of bright orange hair falls down her back, and her dress is much more deliberately revealing than the other. Her neck is graceful. Her smile is coy. Rosinante trusts her even less.
And then, the final pair — another man, darker in coloring than the rest of them, and dressed in much looser, form-swallowing clothing. A loose, fluid poncho drowns his upper body — Rosinante can’t see his hands, and that makes him nervous. His hair is riotous and tightly curled, and caught back with an eye-burningly bright scarf. His eyes, dark and wide, flick around the room, taking in people and corners and hiding places with instant, perfect ease. On the other side of him is the most obscured figure. Much shorter, maybe the height of an older child, and covered head to toe in a pink hooded cloak. Under it, one can just make out the suggestion of antlers, a fur-covered arm. A Mink, perhaps.
All of those six move as if Straw Hat was the single center of gravity in the room. Not one of them duck their heads, and somewhere on each person is a bright touch of the same red that brims their prince’s hat, as much of a claim as a scrawled name on their necks. Straw Hat himself moves as if he’s never had a reason to be afraid.
They step down the great stairway and into the ballroom proper, walk to the front of the room where the head table and thrones stand on a dais. Around them, the nobility titter and stare at their strange clothes and the glittering gold they wear.
They reach the front of the room and stop, absurdly coordinated as a group. There is a slight moment of hesitation, obviously preparing for a custom unfamiliar to their own, and then all but Straw Hat himself fall to one knee and into a deep Dressrosi bow before Doflamingo and his table. Straw Hat remains standing. He places an open palm on his heart and inclines his head, all practiced and respectful.
And then he raises his head and he grins. "Hey!" he says, waving up at the King of Dressrosa. "You guys sure have a lot of stairs around here, huh?"
Rosinante watches a nerve jump in the eyebrow of the woman with the orange hair and several others of the Household hold back laughter. The Dressrosi court holds its breath.
Rosinante thinks that his brother might have even answered, as he’s looking distinctly amused, but the herald taps his staff again, and attention shifts back to him as a servant quickly steps forward to usher the Goan party to their table. When no one else is looking, the blond man and the woman with the orange hair elbow their prince gently.
Once again, the herald calls out to the room, titles like anointed metals. "Announcing the head of the Rustvein, second family in the council of the United Clans of the Southlands, anointed by combat and drought, and first of his name: King-Captain Eustass Kidd and his therapon, Killer."
The doors once again open and two people, instead of seven, enter the ballroom. A very different silence falls over the nobles, this time. Out of the corner of his eye, Rosinante sees Doflamingo grin. His own hands knit themselves together under the table.
The party from Goa had been foreign, for certain, different in their clothing and their customs from the people of Dressrosa, but they seemed almost tantalizing in their strangeness. Somehow enchanting in it, lovely and exciting.
Eustass Kidd and Killer are lacking any of that loveliness.
The prince himself is gnarled, scarred from his chest to his cheeks. And they are deep, painful-looking scars, twisted and pink and puckered as if healed incorrectly. They are violent scars which present his violence to the world on a platter. Most shockingly, in the place of where his right arm should be, there is instead a great, twisted arm of metal, shining and strange and in every way alien to the shimmering ballroom around him.
(Rosinante has heard of Eustass’ Devil Fruit power, but thought the tales of how skilled he was with it to be exaggerated. Apparently not, he amends to himself, as he watches the false arm articulate in the fingers the same way a flesh one would.)
All these injuries, and Eustass Kidd does not try to hide even one. He’s not wearing a shirt at all, bare-chested for the room, a dare and a challenge. Tossed around his shoulders is a thick, floor-length red cape, lined with fur and offsetting his equally red hair. His lips are smeared with something purple, eyes lined in black, face twisted into a scowl.
Half a step behind him to his right is his therapon, apparently named Killer. This custom Rosinante is more familiar with — a companion that those who would be leaders are raised alongside in the Southlands, to aid and advise those future leaders.
This man is just as large and broad as Eustass is, though wearing a loose blue shirt where Eustass wears none. Two things stand out, however; an impossibly long mane of dark blond hair which falls nearly to his hips, and the blue and white helmet which obscures the entirety of his head and face. The front has a few carefully placed, rounded holes, assumedly to allow for sight and breathing, but no trace of the face underneath it can be seen.
It’s impossible to look at him and not wonder what he’s hiding beneath it — Ugliness? More scars? How bad must they be, that he covers them while Eustass bears his for the world?
A murmur goes around the room as people take them both in.
Instead of shrinking under the scrutiny, Eustass seems to grow. His shoulders square and his chin tips up, a scowl plants itself on that scarred face, and he stalks down the stairs. His cape flutters behind him dramatically. Killer paces a step behind, hands clasped easily behind his back. Deferential, but a pillar in his own right.
He stops in front of the dais, so sharp it seems a miracle that Killer doesn’t walk into him. Killer, for his part, doesn’t falter once. He stops right as his — master, perhaps? Partner? Rosinante doesn’t know how a therapon addresses the person they are paired with — does, and then bends at the waist in a low, easy bow.
Eustass does no such gesture. He doesn’t incline his head even a little bit to the King of Dressrosa, only thumps a closed fist against his chest once. He seems to be daring Doflamingo to do something about it, and Rosinante would almost be impressed, if meeting this whelp in any other situation.
Doflamingo, for his part, only looks amused.
"Our journey here was easy," says the King-Captain, somehow making it sound like an insult. "Let’s hope the rest of this is, too."
And he allows himself to be seated by a servant, and the herald takes his place at the top of the stairs once again.
For the last time, he calls over the room, announcing the final guest of honor of this event. "And finally," he says, "the ward of Dressrosa, Adopted Child of Donquixote-Younger, blessings onto him, chosen heir of Donquixote-Elder, his majesty the High King, and fifth-level master of the arcane and medical arts: Crown Prince Trafalgar Law, and Advisors."
Rosinante inhales deeply but slowly, because he knows his brother is waiting for his reaction. He won’t give him the satisfaction.
‘There you are,’ thinks Rosinante, as Law and his inner circle step into the court. The final and, if you asked Rosinante, most precious player in this show.
Though dressed in Dressrosi fashion, Law still manages to stand out. While everyone else, King and his brother included, are wearing some kind of pastel color or bold pattern, Law is dressed in grays, whites, and blacks, even more understated than Rosinante. A gray waistcoat over a black, tailored shirt and matching black pants, a white and black hat pulled down over his hair. His coat is also black, shaped to make him look sharper, flared at his hips and lined with black feathers to match Rosinante’s mantle.
His three Advisers match his color scheme, cohesive in a way the Goan and Rustvein processions simply were not. Rosinante also has the advantage of knowing, very well, each of these men. One is Shachi, in a black button-up and pants, with a hat two seasons behind the style pulled over his near-untamable auburn hair. Another is Penguin, his own black shirt more tunic-like and untucked, his pants white. He wears his own hat with a veil attached to the front-brim and shielding his eyes, both a signal of scholarly modesty and protection against the crippling photosensitivity of his eyes. And lastly, Bepo, who always needs to deal with being, ostensibly, a polar bear Mink among humans and near-humans. He’s dressed in his customary black jumpsuit, and comes the closest to casually dressed out of all of them. They form a diamond shape, Law at the front point and Bepo at the back one.
Rosinante watches Law scan the room and find him at the front of it. He is likely the only one who can see even a trace of anxiety on Law’s set, stoic face, but Rosinante can practically hear the racing thoughts, running contingency plans.
Their eyes meet. Carefully, subtly, Rosinante moves one of his hands. No one is looking at him, right now. He holds the hand in front of his heart, and then moves it forward and backward a few times, inhaling deeply as he dares as he does. ‘Breathe,’ he urges Law, more with his eyes than with his hands. ‘Breathe. It will all be okay.’
Even across the entire ballroom, Rosinante can tell that Law blinks slowly back once in acknowledgment, before he begins to descend the staircase with far more grace than any of the two groups before him.
They cross to the dais with all the confidence being in their home court allows them, even if that court is Dressrosa. When they reach their destination, the other three take a knee easily, very accustomed to the gesture.
Law, however, climbs the steps to the dais and approaches the high table and thrones. Out of the corner of his eye, Rosinante sees his brother’s head tilt. ‘What are you doing, Law?’ he thinks. ‘This isn’t the script.’
Law bows, straight-backed and practiced, arms at his sides, before Doflamingo. Doflamingo inclines his head back, a monarch acknowledging his heir, the perfect show for the court. Rosinante can tell, by the way his eyebrows twitch behind his tinted glasses, that he’s waiting for whatever this is to play out.
And play out, it does, because Law turns to Rosinante next, in a blatant disregard for tradition. He reaches out his hand. Rosinante, unsure, reaches back, and places his much larger hand into his child’s.
Law bows, with equal perfection but none of the coldness, over Rosinante’s hand. He presses his forehead to it. "Corazón," he says, just loud enough for them three to hear it.
Rosinante feels his heart swell with a bizarre mixture of pride, amusement, and fear. ‘Oh, my brave little fool, ’ he thinks, filled with affection despite himself. ‘You gutsy little fuck. God, you worry me. Good job.’
To the court, and to the visiting foreigners, this was a simple act of affection — an heir to his king, and then a young man to his surrogate father.
Everyone in Doflamingo’s inner family, everyone who matters, knows what is really being said in this acknowledgement. Law, as always, sings his defiance to anyone who knows how to listen.
Rosinante completes the gesture, bowing his head to receive it. Law releases his hand, and then bows back to his kneeling Advisors. They rise, and go to the last open table, which is the closest to the high dais.
Doflamingo masks his scowl by throwing back a gulp of his wine. Rosinante sips cold water, hiding a smile, as his brother gets to his feet and throws his arms out to the side.
‘There are all the players, set. Now the show really starts.’
"Honored members of the Court, and honored guests," Doflamingo says, voice echoing. "We are here to celebrate a historic moment; the joining of three great nations. The betrothal of my own dear heir, Dressroa’s very own Trafalgar Law, to Goa’s Monkey D. Luffy and the Southlands’ Eustass Kidd, and each to the other and each to the other, and so on. We celebrate now so that this union might be blessed, and honor all three of them so that we may be honored in return. Welcome, all, to Dressrosa!"
Chapter 1: End