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Rosinante accepted the assignment with resolution and grace. What he didn’t accept was the premise. At a glance, it was cheap, and he didn’t expect Doflamingo to shell out even three red cents for it. Reports indicated that in all ways that mattered, his brother hadn't changed.
He was beginning to regret that decision, and not only because it’d pushed the start of his mission back by several months. His superiors needed convincing, then time to rewrite key story beats and provide him with the necessary supplementary materials; weeks where he hadn’t done much of anything while his brother had been busy. Busy recruiting, busy stockpiling, busy ordering the sack of defenseless towns.
If Rosi let himself, he could feel very guilty about that.
But that wasn’t the biggest issue. All of that was behind him, and there was nothing he could do now about what Doflamingo had already done. What concerned him most were the six—no, seven guns pointed at him.
Seven that he could see. He’d bet his right eye on there being more.
He vaguely recognized the people behind them, had seen their faces on wanted posters, arrest records, and various other government files. Career criminals, except for the one who looked too young to have acquired a significant rap sheet.
“Not one step more,” that one ordered from behind the gate of Doflamingo’s base. His voice cracked, confirming Rosi’s suspicions about his age. “Or I’ll turn that pretty coat of yours to lace.”
Oh, Rosinante believed that. The child was snarling, his gangly body coiled tight, trigger finger ready to squeeze. The others, thankfully, seemed less inclined. They held their weapons up in passive warning, more curious than outright violent.
“You’re a long walk from the docks, commander,” an older one said, noting Rosi’s rank pins. “Maybe you’re lost.” When Rosi didn’t answer, the man humphed. “Or maybe not.”
“Nah, must be,” another cooed, all patronizing. “Not exactly a place you’d run up on alone.”
“Unless you’re confident,” yet another one said.
“Ha! Yea, real confident.” Another voice. “Hey, commander, is that it?”
Rosi considered responding, but ultimately decided against it. He didn’t like his chances of not somehow answering wrong. With a polite smile on his face and his hands up by his shoulders, he opted to wait for a safer question.
One of the guards frowned at his silence. “Come on now, speak up.” They gave Rosi a moment, frowning deeper when he didn’t comply. “Hey gull-brain, you not friendly? Deaf? What’s the problem?”
A ripple of tension went through the guard detail. A few of them adjusted their firearms, and Rosinante was about to give in when the youngest member surprised him. The boy’s brow pinched in thought and the muzzle of his gun slightly angled down.
“Maybe he doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”
That was a fair, if incorrect, assumption. One didn’t need to understand a region’s language to know that a drawn gun meant stop.
“I can understand you,” Rosinante clarified, perfectly matching the boy’s accent. “Aha, sorry! You just startled me, pulling out all those guns.”
He smiled a little more widely, scrunching the corners of his eyes up. It didn’t put the boy at ease. His gun snapped back to attention with alarming speed.
“Yea?” he asked, his voice as hard as steel. Rosi no longer wondered why his brother had snatched up this toddler. With a little guidance, there’d be no pleading with him. “And not deaf either, but I guess Marcie was right about one thing.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“Unfriendly.” The boy played with his pistol’s hammer, flirting with making a threat. “Should’ve known that from the start, though, you being a Marine and all.”
You’re not very friendly yourself, Rosi didn’t say. “Are you in charge here?”
“That’d be me,” the one identified as ‘Marcie’ said, shouldering to step in front of the boy. “State your business.”
Rosinante looked at them—her, now that he took note of more than her arquebus. She was a decade or more older than the others, her face hardened by the sea. Her cheeks were peeling and scarred and she had the wrinkled hands of a grandmother, but Rosi didn’t doubt that she could snap his femur with them.
“I’m here to see Doflamingo.”
“That so?” Her tone was flat and uninterested, but her eyes were sharp as she cataloged Rosi’s weapons: one cutlass and a pistol, three boot knives rumpling his pant legs. “He expecting you, son?”
Rosi tried to imagine someone his brother would be expecting less, but only managed to come up with their father. His stomach twisted with familiar sadness, and he couldn’t help but steal a glance at that child again. How he hoisted that gun, his face chiseled and angry…
That was familiar, too.
“No,” he said honestly, tearing his eyes away from the kid, “but he’ll want to see me, all the same.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The nicety took Marcie aback enough that the angle of her arquebus slipped. “Call him, won’t you, please? Tell him it’s Rosi.”
She didn’t bat an eye at the name, but why would she? Doflamingo had no reason to talk about him. Fourteen years was a long time to hold out hope for his brother coming back.
“Say we do and he’s never heard of you, or worse: he has, and doesn’t like you.”
Rosi didn’t let on for a second that he’d already considered that. If his brother decided to play it that way… well, Rosinante had fought off a snatch of gunmen before. It probably wouldn’t be pleasant, but he’d survive.
“Then you’ll do whatever you want, obviously.”
Marcie licked her chapped lips, measuring Rosinante’s height and muscle against the combined strength of her team. In a practiced calculation, she apparently found him manageable.
Putting the nose of her gun to the dirt, she ordered someone to make the call.
Spider Miles didn't have much to offer in the way of tactical advantage. On top of that, it was industrially filthy and the air tasted bad. Most of the citizens were poor and living in mill housing or the shells of abandoned facilities.
Doflamingo, who wasn’t poor, still blended in nicely.
From the outside, headquarters wasn’t much to look at. The building Doflamingo had chosen was newer than most, but it was still dismal. The roof was stained by acid rainfall and there were smog smudges all over its face. It looked like an orphanage someone had slapped together then promptly forgotten.
The inside was a different story. All the effort Doflamingo had spared on sprucing up the exterior, he’d let run wild there. Lush furniture and plush rugs, richly colored runners on the stairs; dark wood, expensive paintings, light fixtures dripping gems; ornate mirrors of clashing sizes, candelabra, fine china, stacks of wine barrels.
It was opulent. It was tacky. It was all almost certainly stolen.
He thumbed his left hip as he was guided from the foyer. All the places on his body where weapons had been were itching, but he tried not to look too uncomfortable. It wouldn’t do him any favors. Anyway, it was too late for cold feet. His escort had him boxed in.
The night before he sailed out, back in his quarters, just he and Sengoku, the man he’d come to think of as ‘papa’ warned him this would happen. Over a few beers, he laid the whole timeline out. He told Rosi the precise moment that the reality of his assignment would hit, and that when it did, Rosi would feel chilly and exposed.
Of course, he’d been right. But, Rosi realized as he was guided down a cramped hall, Sengoku had downplayed it. He didn’t feel so much exposed as he did like a raw nerve. He recognized the onset of panic, and worried Doflamingo would be able to smell it.
He bit down on that worry as he was ushered into a private sitting room, lined with crammed-full bookshelves and dotted with chairs. A phonograph scratched out music on a corner table, kept company by a snail phone and half-empty wine bottle. Papers, pens, ornate lipstick tubes, perfume bottles, and smudged drinking glasses, little signs of a messy life were scattered everywhere.
An old but well-cared for rug covered most of the floor, softening everyone’s steps as they entered. In the middle of it stood Doflamingo, feathered coat and all.
It took every shred of Rosi's willpower not to freeze in the door.
Wanted posters never did their subjects justice. Rosinante knew this. He’d expected to be surprised, but expectation paled next to reality. In person, his brother was arresting. Rosi had been the pretty child, according to their late parents, but Doflamingo had grown into all his sharp angles perfectly.
Rosi let his escort put him where they wanted—a safe distance from Doflamingo, just in case. His brother didn’t acknowledge them. He looked Rosi over in silence, exaggerating the tilt of his chin to make a show of things.
It was overkill. Even behind the colored lenses of his glasses, Rosi could feel the burn of Doflamingo’s eyes. It was another thing posters couldn’t communicate: what it felt like to be looked at, and Doflamingo’s attention had the bite of a freshly sharpened knife.
After a few heavy seconds, Doflamingo relaxed his stance. He canted his hips and brushed back the flaps of his coat, planting his big, manicured hands on his waist. His painted nails were bright against his black shirt, the color perfectly matched to his tie and the bottom of his heels.
Heels. Rosi could’ve laughed. It was another bit of overkill.
“Well,” his brother drawled, plastering on the grin that graced hundreds of bounty boards, “you sure know how to make a splash. Ever heard of a warning call?” He sighed like an overtaxed mother, then looked to his men and waved them off. “It’s alright, boys. He’s who he says.”
Rosi hadn’t said much of anything. All he’d given them was his name, a fact that clearly didn’t sit well with them. Even disarmed, they didn’t trust him, and they hesitated at the dismissal.
“Back to your posts,” Doflamingo ordered, dialing up his grin.
“Boss…” one tried timidly.
Doflamingo's expression edged on a snarl. “And shut the door when you go, won’t you? My brother and I would like some time alone.”
“Brother?” The guard paled, and Rosi felt sorry for him, supposing that he could’ve led with that himself. “O-oh, well, yeah. Yes, of course.” His eyes darted between Rosi and Doflamingo, and it wasn’t clear who he was talking to when he said, “Sorry. We’ll, ah, we'll just…”
He backed away, beckoning the others to follow. Without complaint, they all filed out of the room. When the door shut behind them, Doflamingo’s face shifted. His smile fell to a thoughtful, thin line.
He didn’t speak again for several minutes.
Rosinante didn’t either. Focusing on keeping his posture relaxed, his hands restful and loosely curled by his thighs, he stared back at his brother, trying to picture his eyes, though he could barely remember what they looked like.
He didn’t know what Doflamingo was waiting for, but he didn’t plan to speak first. To do so would make himself seem anxious. It was a common technique, forcing one’s guest to fill an awkward silence. Luckily, Rosi was no stranger to waiting out pirates.
The standing clock in the corner of the room broke the silence, chiming the half hour. Rosinante tensed. Doflamingo laughed softly, counting that as his point for the round.
“Don’t be nervous, little brother. This is a happy occasion. In fact…” He spread his arms. “Come here.” Rosi hesitated, making him coo. “Don’t be like that, Rosi. Come here,” he insisted, “and greet me like you missed me.”
He waited with arms wide open like a greedy child. Rosi didn’t trust those arms, but went to them anyway. He only took two steps before being engulfed. Doflamingo closed on him like a springtrap, his huge hands roaming Rosi’s shoulders, back, and sides. And it would’ve passed for affectionate—if a little possessive—had Rosi not known exactly what he was groping for.
“Really, Doffy?” he sighed as he hooked his chin over Doflamingo’s shoulder and slipped his hands under his coat. He pressed their chests firmly together, letting him feel with his whole body that there were no wires coiled under Rosi’s uniform.
Doflamingo hummed, not quite sounding satisfied, but stepped back. He left his hands on Rosi’s shoulders, reluctant to let go. Rosi bore them like a burden, uncomfortable in their grip. “You can’t blame me for wondering when you show up dressed like this.”
He looked Rosinante over more critically, taking in the particulars of his uniform. A hand slipped off Rosi’s shoulders and down to his chest. As Doflamingo thumbed the gleaming rank pins, his mouth did something peculiar. It twitched in displeasure and pride of equal measures.
“I’m on duty,” Rosi said, unsure of how else to respond. “How should I be dressed?”
“Civvies would’ve been more discreet, or do they take your street clothes and your balls when you enlist?”
Rosi ignored the dig. Tried, also, to ignore the way Doflamingo had taken to tapping his chest. His nails were drumming against him, perfectly almond shaped. They would’ve been pretty on another man. On Doflamingo, they were talons.
“I thought you’d appreciate the honesty.”
“And you're always thinking of me, are you?” Doflamingo’s laugh was mechanical. “Of course you are. Such a good little brother.”
With a final squeeze of the shoulder and pat on the chest, he let Rosi go and backed into an overstuffed, ugly chair. He fell into it heavily, making it groan under his weight, then again when he arranged himself in it lewdly.
Rosi grimaced. Doflamingo sat like he’d never had a mother. The urge to tell him to clamp his legs shut was strong, but Rosi opted to lead by example when he was offered a seat instead. He thanked Doflamingo when he gestured to the chair left of him and dropped into it primly. While he smoothed the creases out of his jacket, Doflamingo propped his cheek up on his knuckles and stared at him.
“So,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
Rosi pretended to think about it seriously. “You could let me smoke in here.”
Doflamingo clucked his tongue. “That’s a bad habit.”
“So is drinking before noon.” He pulled a pack out of his breast pocket and tapped a cigarette out. “Yes or no?”
Doflamingo watched with what Rosi could only describe as amusement as he fished his matches out without waiting for an answer.
“Oh, fine, yes. Whatever you want, but only if you promise to stop being a tease.”
Rosinante took his time lighting the cigarette, using the moment to center himself. He considered his options, how best to go about getting a grip on the room. Even as a child, Doflamingo had a knack for controlling conversations.
“What do you mean?” he asked after a deep, measured drag.
“I mean it’s been more than a decade, you cruel thing. No call, no letter, nothing, and now you show up on duty.” He mimicked Rosinante’s voice perfectly. “I can only assume that’s because you need something.”
Rosi dropped the spent match into a whiskey glass left on the floor. He wondered how long it’d been there, how much Doflamingo actually drank.
“Maybe I wanted to see you.”
“Fourteen years, Rosi. Several of which, you have to know, I’ve been right here.”
Rosi crossed an ankle over his knee. His pant leg rode up, and the sheath where a knife had been caught Doflamingo’s eye. While his brother was staring at it—thinking about what, Rosinante couldn’t guess—he took another drag off his cigarette, savoring the hit.
“Up until a certain point, it was hard to get away.” He blew the words out on a long stream of smoke. The air between them went hazy. If Doflamingo hated it, it wasn’t obvious.
“And after that?”
“Hard for other reasons.” He ashed into the whiskey glass and licked his lips. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react to me. To this.” He gestured to his uniform.
“What got you over it?”
“I decided the worst that could happen was someone would try to shoot me.”
A dubious sound rumbled up from Doflamingo’s chest. One leg, slung over the arm of his chair, started to bounce. The pink sole of his shoe flashed, drawing Rosi’s eye like the peek of a tongue.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, now, would you? You wouldn’t, say—” Doflamingo puffed his cheeks up and blew out the air slowly. “Have men coming behind you to break down my door while I’m distracted?”
His brother must have thought he was stupid, to suspect first a wire, then a frontal assault. Reports indicated that neither of those things ever worked. Infiltrators got sniffed out and sent back to their bosses in pieces, and chargers were gunned down to dust before they even got close.
“I came to the island with men,” Rosi allowed, “but I left them with the ship. At worst, some of them got bored and are wandering town.” He adjusted in his seat and let his legs fall open, suppressing the fear of Doflamingo gashing open his femoral artery with a string. “I didn't ask anyone to follow me. I didn't even tell them where I was going.”
“And why would you do that?”
“I told you why.”
"Sweet Rosi," Doflamingo pouted theatrically as he crooned, “you’ll have to forgive me for not entirely believing you.”
Rosi hadn’t expected him to. It didn’t interfere with his plans. It was better, actually, if Doflamingo was on guard. So long as he was playing defense, Rosi was free to poke around for a tender spot that he was sure his brother—like all men—had.
“You look good,” he redirected, taking Doflamingo by surprise. “That coat is something else, but it suits you. And wanted posters, you know, they don't flatter you. The print washes out your nice skin.” He ashed into the glass again. “I always thought you’d turn out more handsome than me.”
Doflamingo preened—didn’t seem like he could help himself—though it was clear that he didn’t know what to make of that. “Trying to butter me up?”
“I mean it. And this place is nice inside. You acquired all of this yourself?”
“Who else would have? We didn’t all get snatched up by your class of benefactor. Who, let me guess, was well-to-do but lonely? Unfulfilled?” Doflamingo pursed his lips, and for a moment, Rosi thought he’d follow that thread. He expected his brother to demand a name to go digging for information on, but to Rosinante’s surprise, he asked instead, “Were you treated well?”
It took Rosi several seconds longer than he’d have liked to reply. “Better than I would’ve been on a street corner.”
It was an ungracious thing to say. It hurt him to speak of Sengoku like that. He was deeply and tenderly grateful to him, but the truth—at least on that subject—had no place in Rosi’s story. Openly loving the man who’d taken him from Doflamingo would just complicate things.
“Good,” Doflamingo said softly, almost distracted. “I had hoped…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t hard to guess what his brother had feared happened to him instead.
“What about you?”
Doflamingo shrugged off a ghost. “I made do.”
That, by contrast, was extremely gracious. Rosinante had pieced together an image of his brother’s life through third and fourth hand sources. Doflamingo was a gang child who’d come up through rough-and-tumble means. Over the years, his viciousness had escalated, and while some of that was probably inevitable, just a part of his personality, some of it…
Rosinante didn’t like to think about it.
“Look,” he sighed, walking them back to the point, “you don’t have to believe me, but I did want to see you. I appreciate you letting me. Now, I know you’re very busy—”
Doflamingo cocked his head and interrupted. “Why does that sound like you’re already leaving?”
“Shouldn’t I? You don’t seem all that interested in hosting.”
Rosi drummed his fingers impatiently and Doflamingo tensed, his long nails digging into his chair. For the first time that day, Rosinante felt like he’d gained ground; because whatever game Doflamingo thought he was playing, he plainly wanted Rosi to stay.
“Don’t be so sensitive, little brother. You just surprised me. Of all the people I thought I’d see today…” Doflamingo got to his feet, his coat bouncing almost organically. “What would you like? Wine, whiskey, sake?”
Rosinante let him get all the way to the liquor cabinet before saying, “Just water, please.”
Doflamingo’s hand froze where it was fishing through bottles and he pulled a face. “God above, you're not a teetotaller, are you?”
He sounded so personally offended by the concept that Rosi couldn't help but laugh. “No, I’ve just been at sea for a few months. Our water went stale weeks ago and I'd be grateful for something fresh.”
“You came to the wrong island, then. Most of the water here is polluted.” Doflamingo shut the cabinet and pressed two fingers to his temple, rubbing as if Rosi were distressing him by being quite unreasonable. “Well, luckily, I've wrested control over one of the few remaining potable wellsprings. I’ll call the kitchen and have them bring a pitcher for you, hm?”
“Thank you,” he said, privately thinking of how unlucky Doflamingo’s control of such a resource was for the general population. He wouldn’t put withholding it for any reason past his brother, and made a note to look into it once he got home.
When he called the kitchen, the bewildered voice on the other snail phone told Rosinante everything he needed to know about Doflamingo’s drinking habits. But a pitcher was sent regardless, and the person who brought it filled Rosi’s first glass for him before leaving.
Doflamingo watched him drain half the glass in one gulp. When Rosi put it down, his brother moved to top it off.
“You don’t have to…” Rosi started, but Doflamingo interrupted him with a tut.
“Really, little brother, don’t be so contrary.”
Rosinante bristled, but still folded his hands in his lap. Taking it as permission, Doflamingo poured a generous glass. Rosi was grateful, seeing that, that he’d insisted on not having alcohol. With servings like that, he’d have been drunk in an hour.
“So.” Doflamingo slapped the pitcher down and gestured over his shoulder with one hand. Rosi saw a flash: little wires catching light as they spooled from his finger. With the same power he often used to cut men in half, Doflamingo called a wine bottle to hand without causing so much as a scratch. “Shall I ask again?”
“Ask what?”
“What I can do for you.”
“I already told you.”
“Hm, but you must’ve had something other than staring at each other in mind.”
He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and chugged, his throat working greedily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. Mannerless. Motherless. It made Rosi’s heart hurt.
“I guess,” he said, “that I thought we’d talk about something.”
Doflamingo indulged him. He filled Rosi’s glass whenever it was empty and let Rosi ask question after question, even answering a few directly. Mostly, however, he led the conversation in circles. Getting control of the room wasn’t the success Rosinante hoped it would be.
Despite the effort it must’ve taken to remain so guarded, Doflamingo didn’t lose so much as one step. He was enjoying himself, Rosi realized after an hour or so, treating the entire afternoon like a game of chess.
When Rosi was allowed to leave later—much later, very near nightfall—Doflamingo escorted him to the door. He kissed his cheeks, nose, and forehead in front of a few gobsmacked men keeping watch by it, then spun Rosi around by the shoulders and turned him out.
The door slammed behind him, ringing like a gunshot. Rosinante flinched and the adrenaline that'd kept him floating throughout the day dropped out. Without it, he was left shaking, all the blood draining out of his arms which were awkwardly cradling the weapons that’d been returned to him.
He stood there for a long time, trying to get his breathing under control. His back itched, and he was sure that if he turned around, he’d see faces pressed to the windows. But he didn’t. He ignored the feeling, reminding himself that he still had half a job to do. The day wasn’t over until he made it back to his ship.
After he’d collected himself, he followed the path back to the gate. The sense of being watched faded steadily, and when he reached the street, it was gone. He risked glancing back at the base then. Every window curtain was drawn, and even squinting, he couldn’t make out the shape of bodies in them.
Some of the tension left him at that, but it didn’t bring relief. He felt like a marionette who’d snapped its strings. The only good thing to come of it was that his hands finally stopped shaking enough for him to examine and then strap each of his weapons back in place.
He gave his pistol the longest look over, stopping under a streetlamp to scrutinize every centimeter for evidence of tampering. He didn’t find any, but it did look like the gun had been cleaned.
He holstered it, knowing that, without a doubt, Doflamingo had won the first game.
Midnight found him on his ship’s aft deck, leaned over the railing and staring back in the direction of Spider Miles. It was a couple leagues out of sight, but he could still smell it on his uniform and taste its acrid smog on his tongue.
He couldn't sleep, and after a few fitful hours in his quarters he gave up on trying and relieved a midshipman of watch. He planned to wait out the night and pen his report first thing in the morning. After he sent it, there were plenty of chores to keep his mind and body occupied.
He finished one cigarette, then another, a fourth, sixth, seventh, going over the note he planned to send ahead to base. First contact marginally successful. Failure to gain trust, but no outward hostility—excluding upon appearance—experienced. Treated and engaged with civilly, all confiscated weapons returned. Confident in future success. Willing to proceed.
Yes, that would do. It answered everything his superiors needed it to while sparing him going into detail—for now. He’d be expected to deliver a comprehensive report when he returned, but he wouldn’t be back for a few more weeks. That was more than enough time to compose himself.
The breeze off the sea picked up, ruffling Rosi’s hair. A chunk tickled his ear and he thought back to a moment in Doflamingo’s sitting room: his brother getting bored with lounging and taking to circling him; pausing on the first pass behind Rosi’s back; gently tucking a curl behind Rosi’s ear and bending to whisper, “You always had such beautiful hair.”
It was for the best that he couldn't sleep, Rosi thought. He knew what he’d dream of.