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Crocodile hated rich people parties.
Sure, they were useful; it was a place to make contacts and observe potential “partners” (victims) for future enterprises. And technically Crocodile himself was one of them now – a businessman, a casino owner, a respectable Shichibukai, and a personal guest of the King of Alabasta.
But some part of him – some remnant of his younger self who had dreams and not ambitions – still instinctively cowered before the crowds consisting of high and mighty. Of course, Crocodile never let it show, yet the churning tension inside his stomach spoiled the delicacies and soured the fine wine he was drinking.
Crocodile knew he was not one of them, never had been, and never would be. He might have money now, but somehow all these rich bastards could immediately sniff out the street kid in him. Crocodile was not stupid; he knew that he lacked something, some inherent, instinctive feel for details that all nobles possessed: what to wear, how to decorate, what alcohol to drink with which food. He remembered the humiliation of going to expensive restaurants when he was younger, a few years after he was made Shichibukai: how waiters seemed to overlook him, formally polite, yet subtly derisive, how other patrons cast side glances at him and whispered between themselves. How he spent a fortune in attempts to dress classy and caught nobles sneering and smirking behind his back. One could take a man out of the slums, but not the slums out of a man, Crocodile supposed.
And that (immature, Crocodile admitted now) shame and humiliation were what used to ruin his relationship with Doflamingo. It wasn't a relationship back then, more like a series of one-night stands, and Doflamingo was objectively the best lay Crocodile had ever had (not that he would tell the bird that; his ego was big enough as it was). And Doflamingo had been wooing him ceaselessly, trying to turn the random nights of sex into something more; but every attempt ended in Crocodile leaving with a scowl and a bitter taste on his tongue.
For, unlike him, Doflamingo was one of the rich people.
Of course, he lost his Celestial Dragon status years ago, and the white gate of Mary Geoise was closed for him forever. But he was born there, among the power and luxury, and even now, as a pirate, he still had that mysterious something that Crocodile missed.
Doflamingo could walk into a restaurant shirtless underneath his awful feather coat, and the waiters broke their backs trying to please him, while Crocodile, dressed in his best suit, was ignored. Doflamingo could listen to an opera with his feet on the velvet railing of their box, and during the intermission, a noblewoman from the box next to theirs would approach him and ask how he liked it, which ended with them talking sopranos and librettos for twenty minutes, while Crocodile drank his champagne in grim silence. It used to drive him up the wall and almost destroyed the budding semblance of a relationship that they had.
Now, from the vantage point of his age, Crocodile remembered his easily-hurt younger self with lenient pity. At some point in his life, he stopped caring about what others thought of him. So what if the nobles of Alabasta considered his favorite vests garish and the golden rings on his fingers tasteless? They would still crawl to him if they needed a loan or protection from rampaging pirates. Crocodile even enjoyed flaunting his unsavory past in the middle of their fancy parties. There was nothing these pathetic worms could do about it.
Actually enjoying spending time with Doflamingo was a nice bonus. And during the fancy parties, he was the only thing keeping Crocodile sane.
“Oh my god, look at that idiot over there,” Doflamingo snickered, taking a sip of his spiced wine. The two of them were sitting on the low sofa in a relatively cozy corner of the grand hall of Alubarna palace. It was the start of the rainy season celebration – the biggest national holiday in Alabasta (although, Crocodile thought with smug satisfaction, there wouldn't be a rainy season this year) – and usually tightfisted Cobra threw a grand official party, inviting every bigwig he could get a hold of. That's how Doflamingo ended up here – as the King of Dressrosa, he was here with an official visit. Which was mostly a thin excuse to come pester Crocodile, but Cobra did not need to know that.
“Hmm?” Crocodile took a little honeyed pastry from the tray a servant boy offered him. The kid was gawking at the Hero of Alabasta with adoration but vanished the moment Crocodile waved his hook, signing him to leave.
“That guy in a purple caftan. Holy shit, I can't believe it.” Doflamingo rested on a literal pile of embroidered cushions, taking up the whole couch, and while usually, Crocodile would disapprove, it meant that there was no space left for any noble prick to join them.
“I thought caftans were the latest fashion?” Crocodile himself was a man of habit. He liked his dress shirts and vests, thank you very much, but Rain Dinners offered a good overview of what the rich considered fashionable at the moment.
“Yeah, but it's made of Byssian silk!” Doflamingo shook his head, his usual grin turning venomous. “What a fucking loser.”
Crocodile frowned. Yes, he did not care for people's opinions anymore, but it did not mean he was any less annoyed by these little good taste things that eluded him.
“What's wrong with Byssian silk? I have bed sheets made of it.” And they were the best investment of three million belli he had made of late, because they felt divine on his skin. If they somehow offended Doflamingo's refined tastes, he could sleep on the couch tonight.
But Doflamingo perked up like a bird at the sight of a mirror.
“That's what I mean! Do you know the history of Byssian silk?”
Crocodile shook his head. When Doflamingo got like that, it was easier to let him talk – otherwise, he might explode.
“See, the royals of the Byss island cultivated the idea that extremely sensitive skin was a sign of nobility. They even had the legend that one of their queens was so sensitive that a nightgown made from common silk cut her skin. So Byssian silk was created and perfected over hundreds of years to be the softest, finest fabric in the world, and originally it was only reserved for royalty. This is why it's so expensive.” Doflamingo downed his wine and put the glass aside, finally giving his hands freedom to gesticulate. Crocodile liked observing the bird talk – he was like a windmill with his long lean arms, but graceful all the same. “And the very point of Byssian silk is that it was created for direct contact with the skin. It is used for bed sheets, underwear, bathrobes – everything that allows you to feel it. But that idiot,” Doflamingo gestured in the unfortunate man's direction, “has a caftan made of it. Which is ridiculous! No one makes outerwear out of Byssian silk! This is a crime against good taste.”
“I see,” Crocodile murmured, sipping his own wine. He had to admit that Doflamingo's story was interesting. Now that he explained it, Crocodile could see the logic behind what he would normally dismiss as one of the “rich people things”. Perhaps they all would make sense if explained properly; but this would defeat their purpose, wouldn't it? Because these details allowed the nobles to tell their own from nouveau riche impostors like Crocodile.
“Ah,” he said dismissively, smirking into his glass, “That's too complicated. If I tried to remember every thing that might make me look ridiculous, I'd go crazy.”
“But Croco, it's not like that!” Doflamingo got even more agitated, and Crocodile worried for a moment that his arms might turn into wings and he'd fly away. “Look, why do you wear these colorful vests of yours?”
“Because I like them,” Crocodile deadpanned. Seriously, not the vests again!
“Exactly!” Doflamingo raised a finger, grinning even wider. “And do you know why I wear my coat?” He stroked the pink feathers of his sleeve. “Because I like it! It's soft and fluffy, and it looks like a pink cloud. But that guy?” Another derisive gesture at the purple caftan. “He got that fucking caftan because he wanted to seem rich and powerful, and Byssian silk was the most expensive fabric he could think of. He desperately wants to be respected, to belong. And this is what makes him ridiculous. Do you get my point?”
Doflamingo was smiling at him, truly smiling – and, despite himself, Crocodile smiled in return. It was unexpected, that speech of Doflamingo's, especially after all those painful dating attempts of their youth – but it was nice. Made that young pirate sleeping deep inside him feel a little better.
Crocodile tried to rein his grin in; no need to look like a foolish teenager in front of the damn bird.
“It is still all rich people quirks. I do not care for such things.” Crocodile put his own glass aside and got up. “I heard they have a cigar bar here. Want to go with me?”
There was, indeed, a cigar bar near the balcony. Crocodile leaned over the table, scanning the boxes... and cursed.
“What the actual fuck? Are they all from South Blue?!”
“What?” Doflamingo hurried to him like the curious bird he was. “What's wrong with South Blue cigars?”
“Everything!” Crocodile suppressed the urge to run his hook through the boxes and turned to Doflamingo. “So the tobacco plant originally comes from West Blue, right?”
That was a rhetorical question, but Doflamingo still replied:
“Right. But I thought that nowadays they grow it everywhere?”
“Yes, and there are some nice types from the Grand Line and East Blue, and they even managed to grow it on one of the islands in North Blue – it has an unusual taste and aroma, but it's quite exquisite. However,” Crocodile turned to the table again, glaring at the offending boxes, “South Blue tobacco is garbage. They try to make it fancier by infusing the leaves with all sorts of chemicals, so in addition to being garbage, the cigars made of it also taste like mint, or strawberries, and the taste is so strong it feels like you're smoking a cake! So they put them in pretty boxes and slap a huge price tag on them to make them appear good, while the way they roll them is...” He paused, because Doflamingo was watching him with a huge shit-eating grin. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing!” Doflamingo giggled, but Crocodile did not sense anything but genuine mirth in that laugh. The bird wrapped one arm around his shoulders and pulled him toward the balcony. “Now, tell me more. You were saying something about the way they roll cigars?”