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Having been born and raised in the New World, Katakuri hasn’t spent much time in Paradise, or any of the other four seas. He’s certainly made it his business to understand the geography of the rest of the world, and this has served him well in the years since he took stewardship of Totto Land. What the now-defunct World Government once considered a lawless operation is now the largest global exporter of flour and grain. They’d had the infrastructure; once Mama’s appetite was out of the equation, they were well primed to fill a considerable vacuum in world trade.
Not that it had been an entirely seamless transition. Their territories had suffered not just attacks from other pirates and the Navy, but significant flooding as well. Komugi had come out unscathed, but the smaller, low lying islands were not as lucky. Cacao Island took near catastrophic damage, and they lost almost all of their cocoa crop. What survived continues to struggle, and a number of rare strains have been lost entirely. They may be able to recover or replicate some of them, but the fruition of that process won’t happen in his lifetime.
Still, laying down the groundwork for full recovery is half of his job, and he takes it seriously. Despite the losses, some hope remained thanks to the meticulous record keeping of his brother, Mont-d’Or. Because of that, he’s been able to track down numerous exports and trades over the years. There’s a particular type of cocoa tree they lost to the flooding, but their records also show six of them were purchased and transported out of their territory within the last decade.
The actual receipt was harder to find, but ultimately they identified the customer: Dracule Mihawk, located on Kuraigana Island. It’s lucky enough that Hawkeyes still lives there, moreso that he confirmed the trees are intact, and a mercy that he’s agreed to let Katakuri even come look at them. He hadn’t sounded thrilled about the entire affair, but Katakuri thinks that’s just how he normally sounds.
Kuraigana is a gloomy, dark island that fits the general aesthetic and demeanor of Hawkeyes. Katakuri understands the original kingdom here fell to ruin, and Hawkeyes had simply taken up roost. Now the castle grounds are meticulously kept, and the surrounding land is dense pine forests and freshwater lakes. The rest is sprawling farmland, both food and botanicals, tended by a curious army of monkeys.
He’s impressed. It takes a lot of work to achieve this sort of operation. Given the misty, cloudy nature of the island, there’s a lot to take into consideration to get anything to bloom around here.
The cocoa trees are in good company, though, growing in the dappled shade of towering oak trees. They’re mature, but Katakuri still has to bend to one knee to inspect them. The leaves are vibrant and healthy, and the earth is rich and loamy, perfect for their roots. Hawkeyes, who barely comes up to his knees when he’s standing, is next to him.
“I can pay,” Katakuri says. “Extraction, transport and delivery.”
Mihawk frowns. “I was unaware you wanted the entire tree.”
Katakuri sighs. “We’re not going to get a lot of production out of just six trees. Back home, we can clone and reproduce them. Replenish the strain.”
“I understand that,” Mihawk says. “But they’re not mine to sell or trade. You’ll have to speak with Perona.”
This surprises Katakuri. He’d assumed everything here was under the purview of Mihawk himself. He’s not familiar with Perona’s name.
They walk back towards the castle. He keeps his pace slow to match Mihawk’s, which gives him time to admire the scenery. Everything about this place has been restored beautifully; cobblestone walkways, brick archways and wrought iron gates and trellises heavy with blooming vines. In the context of the island’s inherent gloom and mist, it makes for a very serene, peaceful landscape.
His pace slows when they pass an adjacent courtyard. Through the stone moon gate is a garden full of every color and variety of hydrangea, every one of them in full bloom. The enormous blossoms create a riot of pastels and whites and greens, woven around statuary and a bubbling water feature. Katakuri stops dead in his tracks when he sees that among all that beauty sits an angel.
He isn’t an angel, of course, but Katakuri knows who it is: King the Wildfire, once right hand man to Kaido and a rival to his own position among pirate crews. Katakuri has never seen him unmasked in person. After Kaido’s fall and King’s escape from the World Government, his bounty had been reissued and doubled, if only because the thought of a lunarian on the loose has been an affront to the Navy. His new bounty picture had been blurry and poorly angled, but obvious enough.
The picture didn’t do him justice at all. He’s stunningly handsome, the picture of masculine beauty even while he just sits there, head bent slightly as he reads from the book in his lap. He’s traded in the studded and spiked leather for jeans and breezy, cream colored shirt that’s open down nearly to his navel. It’s a perfect contrast against his dark skin, same as his white hair, which falls in a long braid over one shoulder. His wings are tucked close, black feathers glossy, nearly iridescent, though the right one is half gone.
King pauses halfway through turning the page of his book and looks up, red eyes landing directly on Katakuri, who immediately loses his nerve. Face blazing as he ducks his chin deeper into his scarf, he hurries to leave, catching up to Mihawk in only a few strides. He can feel King’s piercing gaze on him until he’s out of his line of sight. His heart is pounding.
Mihawk doesn’t appear to have noticed anything amiss, but he does say: “I assume you recall the rules about fighting here?”
“I have no quarrel with him,” Katakuri says, a little too quickly. Mihawk has misunderstood his staring, which is a relief.
“Perona will be back later tonight. In time for dinner, at least,” Mihawk continues. “You’re welcome to join us.”
He hadn’t wanted to spend more than a day here, but he also hadn’t planned on needing to negotiate with anyone except Mihawk himself.
When he hesitates, Mihawk arches one brow, and says: “Alber will be there.”
Alber. Of course King isn’t his real name. And if that’s his given name, offered so freely by Mihawk, what else can be learned about such an enigmatic figure? It’s likely the only chance he’ll ever get. He’s not even thinking about the cocoa trees anymore.
A bit belatedly, he also realizes Mihawk had not misunderstood his staring at all. He feels his face burn hot again. He should have known. Their mastery of Observation haki might manifest differently, but they weren’t considered the best for nothing.
“If it’s no trouble,” he says, regretting it almost immediately. Agreeing to dinner is the same as eating in front of strangers, something he’s spent most of his life carefully avoiding. He’s not sure how he’ll pull it off without offending the host.
“None whatsoever,” Mihawk says. They stop at the doors. “Feel free to explore the grounds. Don’t mind the ghosts.”
Hawkeyes disappears inside before Katakuri can ask: what ghosts? Then he decides it’s probably a joke, judging by the look of this place. Given free reign, he looks back towards where the courtyard is, frozen to the spot with indecision. Eventually, he heads back towards the docks, to let the crew know they’ll be staying the night, at the very least.
He has no idea if he’ll leave with the trees by this time tomorrow, or come to any kind of agreement. It should be the first and only thing on his mind.
Instead, as he walks the path down to the docks, shiny cobblestone bordered by blooming rows of lavender, his thoughts circle back to a lunarian surrounded by hydrangeas.
***
People are already seated and eating by the time he arrives for dinner, though he isn’t late by any means. Hawkeyes, seated at the head of the table, makes no announcement or introduction to his appearance, so Katakuri understands this is a rather informal affair. It’s unusual, but not exactly a surprise considering the host.
There are a lot more people here than he’d expected. A few he’s met, some he knows only by reputation, and the rest are unknown to him. The seat on Mihawk’s right is empty, but next to that is Sir Crocodile, and then Benn Beckman of the Red Hair Pirates, and others he thinks must serve on the same crew.
To Mihawk’s left sits two young women, one with bright pink hair, and another with half white, half red hair. One of them is certainly Perona. As soon as he walks in, the two women duck their heads together to whisper to one another. He tries to ignore this.
Next to them is the current World’s Strongest Swordsman: Roronoa Zoro. He doesn’t spare a glance towards Katakuri, but the living skeleton with an afro seated next to him waves like they know each other. Not wanting to be impolite, he waves back, and then considers his own seating options.
The main table is clearly original to the castle, but the second table looks like a recent addition. It’s the same height as the first table, but the seating is sunken into the floor. It’s cushioned and there’s plenty of room underneath to stretch out his legs. There are only two other people occupying this space: Gecko Moria and King. They sit opposite one another, and are making no effort to converse whatsoever. Moria’s attention wanders back to the other table more often than not.
The table layout is a rather clever way to deal with the height disparities of the guests. Moria, King and himself still tower over even Crocodile, but it’s less awkward. He’s reminded somewhat uncomfortably of Mama’s obsession with gigantification and her dream of the whole family sitting at the table at the same height. He’s always been quietly grateful that dream never bore any fruit. This solution probably wouldn’t have appeased her, anyway.
Katakuri chooses to sit next to King, who gives him a perfunctory nod in greeting. He’s wearing the same outfit from before, and Katakuri is glad he chose not to sit across from him, where he’d have to fight not to stare at his chest. Not that the rest of him isn’t as distracting: this close he can see the simple tattoo that curves around his left eye, and the purple flowers woven into his braided hair. It paints such a sharp contrast from the King he once knew, a ruthless fighter who would reduce entire islands to cinders if it pleased his captain.
“Sorry I’m late!” The doors bang open and Red Haired Shanks stands in the threshold. Katakuri has by now only put a few things on his plate, but no one else stops what they’re doing when the once-Emperor strolls in. The look Mihawk gives him could peel paint off the wall. “Is everyone here already? Ah, Katakuri! I heard you were coming. Good to see you.”
He sounds like he means it, but Katakuri just nods. Mama had hated Shanks on a level Katakuri could barely begin to understand, but he harbors no such ill will. He watches as Shanks takes the seat at Mihawk’s right. No one seems bothered by his arrival or his supposed tardiness, so Katakuri turns his attention back to the food.
He doesn’t plan on eating unless he’s quick enough. He’d been given the option to eat in his room, which feels rude, and also defeats the purpose of his extended stay. The dinner is an impressive spread, anyway, spanning both tables, and doesn’t appear to restrict itself to any sort of locale or theme. The seafood options range from sushi and sashimi to full racks of roasted sea beast ribs, and there are sandwiches next to bowls of curry, fried rice and risottos and soups. The drink options seem equally endless, and Katakuri waves off the wine and the sake in favor of tea.
He’s considering how to sneak a bite of the butternut squash risotto when Moria addresses him: “You’re here for Perona’s cocoa trees, aren’t you? Good luck.”
Moria titters to himself, but Katakuri isn’t daunted. “You know her?”
“I raised her,” Moria sniffs.
Katakuri isn’t sure if that creates more questions than it answers. The connection between the guests in this room runs the gamut of former Warlords to Emperors and everyone in between. He just can’t figure how they all wound up so… civil.
"You did a shit job,” King says mildly, and Moria sneers at him. “In spite of that, she turned out alright.”
Katakuri doesn’t expect the roundabout praise, but if he’s friendly with Perona, maybe he can work with that. He also realizes he has no understanding whatsoever of the dynamics in this castle. It does and doesn’t remind him of Mama’s tea parties and their own family dinners. He expected more of an undercurrent of tension, especially between Mihawk and Zoro, but the overall atmosphere is relaxed. No one is really arguing, at least not above any level of sniping that King and Moria exchange.
He contents himself with observing, and when he’s certain no one is looking, manages a few bites of dinner. Moria gives him a suspicious look when he brushes some crumbs off his scarf, but makes no attempt to explain himself.
Katakuri intends to figure out as much as he can about the two women at the next table, at least enough to determine which one is Perona and what to expect when negotiating. Unfortunately, everytime he looks to his left, he’s immediately distracted by King. It’s not just that he’s incredibly pleasing to look at in general, but mostly that he clearly has a colossal appetite that could rival half of Katakuri’s family. This shouldn’t be surprising, given the fire always burning at his back and the size of his zoan form, but Katakuri finds himself staring nonetheless.
Whether or not he knows he has an audience, King packs away his dinner with a sort of ruthless efficiency Katakuri expects to see on the battlefield. He fills his plate and empties his plate almost just as quickly, earning a few barbs from Moria when he snatches up the last of the rice balls with his chopsticks before the former Warlord can get his share. A bowl of spicy noodles is his next victim, deftly coiled up on his chopsticks and consumed, and then he downs the broth in one obscene gulp. Moria watches this with unconcealed disgust.
King then goes for the sea beast ribs, pulling apart the tender meat and cracking the bones like they’re toothpicks. The way he sucks the meat clean off the bone quickly has Katakuri hot under his scarf, made worse when King licks the sauce off of his fingers. This seems to take longer than necessary, but Katakuri’s certain he’s imagining that, even when King goes back for another round of ribs. Somehow, though all of this, King doesn’t get a single drop of sauce on his white shirt.
Get it together, he scolds himself.
Gawking is really just rude, but if he’s being honest with himself, King has always fascinated him. They’ve traded blows before, many times. And even if they weren’t beating the shit out of each other at the behest of their respective captains, they’d passed time together amicably enough, too. Neither of them were much for conversation, but Katakuri always liked to think of them as equals, or even foils. They both stood among the chaos of their crews and weathered the tempest, keeping everything on track and watching the horizon for trouble. He has a lot of respect for King. Maybe he even admired him, a little.
Or maybe he’s over thought it, and King never noticed him one way or another.
“I hope you have a plan,” Moria says, and Katakuri looks at him, blinking. He’d been staring at King, but he doesn’t think Moria noticed.
“What?”
“Bad luck that Crocodile’s here, too,” Moria continues, waving his fork around as he speaks. “He’ll coach her through any negotiations.”
“We can hear you!” the pink-haired girl shouts. “You better not be telling him any of my secrets!”
She must be Perona. Katakuri decides he doesn’t want to drive a wedge between them, so he reassures her: “He isn’t.”
“What secrets?” Zoro says, as if Katakuri hadn’t spoken at all. He has the same sort of bizarre intensity as Hawkeyes, who’s only spared a few words with Shanks and Crocodile at this point. “You don’t have any.”
“That’s why they’re secrets,” the woman next to Perona says. “You’re not supposed to know they exist!”
“Exactly,” Perona says, nodding. “As if I’d trust you with anything so sensitive, anyways.”
Zoro glowers at her, stabbing his food. Then he looks directly at Katakuri, and says: “You’re doomed.”
Katakuri doesn’t think this is a threat. Next to him, King’s shoulders shake, and he realizes it’s because King is trying not to laugh. When he knows he’s failed to hide this, King says: “I’m sorry. It’s true.”
When King smiles, Katakuri almost instantly forgets he’s gotten himself into an apparently impossible situation. It only lasts a moment, and then reality sinks back in. “I think I’m outnumbered.”
“Mostly outmaneuvered,” Crocodile chimes in. “And we haven’t even gotten started.”
“Let’s not be rude,” Shanks says. “Give the man some credit, he provided dessert!”
This has the effect of turning the conversation towards the assortment of pies, pastries and candies he’s brought from his ship. His pastry chefs had been more than up for the job, even on short notice, and they hadn’t even needed use of Mihawk’s kitchen. Keeping people well fed is something of a point of pride for Charlottes, even now. There’s a customary selection of donuts, but he’s holding himself back to give everyone else a fair shot at them.
Again, he should be checking Perona’s preferences in her dessert choice, anything to give him a leg up in what is certain to be catastrophic negotiating. And again, he finds himself watching King, who plucks a lemon tart out of the assortment. He doesn’t seem all that interested, but pops it in his mouth nonetheless. A moment later, he takes a second tart, and then a third, and then Moria notices and snaps at him about hogging the desserts.
Dinner winds down, and that’s when Mihawk actually addresses everyone gathered. “There will be tea and coffee in the study. Uta and Brook wish to perform for us tonight.” He looks at Katakuri. “Feel free to join us when your business is concluded.”
So Uta is the other woman, and Brook is the talking skeleton. By now he’s mostly remembered Mama had a brief obsession with him, but he tries not to think too hard about anything surrounding Pudding’s wedding. Uta and Brook link arms on the way out, chatting excitedly between the two of them, and one by one everyone else gets up to leave.
Katakuri straightens up when King knocks their shoulders together. “Don’t be too discouraged. But she usually gets whatever she wants.”
"You sound like you know from experience,” Katakuri says. King shrugs.
“I hate the smell of lilacs,” he says cryptically, then he stands, and takes his leave as well. It isn’t until after he’s gone that Katakuri realizes that lilacs are the flowers woven into King’s braid. Just how much power does Perona have around here?
“So,” Perona says. The only people left in the room now are himself, Perona, and Crocodile. Perona folds her hands under her chin. “Make me an offer.”
Crocodile takes a long drag of his cigar, and exhales the smoke through a nasty grin.
Katakuri understands he isn’t making it out of this unscathed.
***
In the morning, Katakuri takes breakfast in his room. Hawkeyes had told him most residents eat breakfast whenever and wherever, and it’s the same for lunch. Dinner is usually the only meal where everyone comes together at the end of the day. For better or worse.
This gives him time to explore the castle before he has to head back down to his ship. Aside from other people’s rooms, he hasn’t been forbidden access to any corner of the castle. It’s a little counter intuitive, he thinks. A big spooky castle on a gloomy island, and there’s no forbidden wings or secret passages?
Well, they certainly exist, which he’d learn if he stayed long enough. For now he wanders down the halls, using his Observation haki to peek ahead and make certain he doesn’t walk in on anyone or anything unpleasant. A lot of the rooms in this wing are simply used as storage. This part of the castle hosts people of his height, of which there aren’t many guests. Foot traffic is higher on the other side of the castle. The privacy suits him fine.
Eventually, he comes to a door that makes him stop, because there is someone in there. He sees himself walking in, and sees who’s in there, but there’s no negative reaction, so he opens the door and walks inside.
He’s immediately hit with heavy humidity and the scent of dirt and fertilizer and moss. The ceiling is high enough for him, but he still has to duck to avoid hanging plants. The glass stretches above and over him, fogged with condensation. Sunlight streams through, hotter than it should be, amplified by the glass.
King is about halfway down the length of the greenhouse, sitting at a potting bench and scooping soil into a container. He’s wearing shorts and a shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with his long hair pinned back neatly. His fire burns low, but it’s there. Katakuri doesn’t hide his approach, and King doesn’t acknowledge him at first, only sparing him a glance when he finally does.
“Did you get your cocoa trees?” King asks.
Katakuri assumes he knows, but answers anyway: “No.”
“Did you get anything at all?”
Katakuri sighs, then turns so he can lean against the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest. “She drives a hard bargain.”
“Mm,” King says. He’s got about a half a dozen bare root plants spread in front of him. After pinching the ends of the roots, he sets about planting it in the soil, working it around the base until it’s stable. He doesn’t seem to mind, or care, that Katakuri watches. When he starts on the second one, he says: “Hawkeyes bought those trees for her. She’ll never part with them.”
“Why?” he asks. It doesn’t matter which part he’s questioning. He can assume the latter based on the former.
“Why does Hawkeyes do anything?” King shoots back. It’s a fair question. He sets aside the second potted plant and starts on the third. “Anyways, it’s damn good chocolate. I’m not surprised it came from Totto Land.”
“It’s not what it used to be,” Katakuri admits. To him, that means despite astronomical production of wheat and cereal grains, they’ve lost a lot of variety and specialties. There’s a lot to be said about leaving a legacy, but this is something that haunts him. They could have done better. They can do better.
“Neither is Wano,” King says, quiet. “And that’s for the best.”
He’s taken a different meaning from what Katakuri has said. He can only guess at what King has been through since Kaido’s fall and Wano’s liberation. It was a very different story for Mama’s territories, which more or less made it through world-ending calamity intact. Both countries thrived once out from under the thumb of an Emperor, if in different ways. Wano governs itself now, but the Charlottes still rule Totto Land.
“I admit, I was surprised to see you here,” Katakuri says. King looks up at him then, expression inscrutable, and Katakuri almost regrets bringing it up. Somehow he’d forgotten he stood there staring at him like an idiot in that courtyard. He tries to recover: “No one really knew where you went.”
“Everywhere and nowhere,” King says, turning his attention back to the plants. “Then I wound up here and stayed. Nothing else to it.”
That’s certainly half the truth, but Katakuri isn’t about to press him on things he doesn’t want to talk about. Which puts him back at square one for conversation topics, leaving silence hanging between them. King finishes potting the fourth and fifth plant in the meantime. He’s the one to fill the silence: “Why do you still wear that?” King asks, pointing to Katakuri’s scarf. “Everyone knows what you look like.”
This much is true, though Katakuri tries not to think about it. His sister Flampe had made good on her threat to expose his face, but she hadn’t been satisfied with attempting to terrify their younger siblings. She’d taken it a step further and sent a copy of the photo off to the World Government. Katakuri hadn’t been named Emperor like his mother, but the bounty poster for the new captain of the Big Mom Pirates had a perfect picture of his monstrous nature, teeth and scars and all.
He’s long since learned that showing his face just harms his family, whether or not he can control it. It was true when he was a child, and it’s true even today, when people assume he’s only inherited the worst of Charlotte Linlin’s traits. Sometimes he can lean into that assumption for an advantage. Mostly he just wishes for the kind of confidence in himself that Brulee thinks he has.
“Force of habit,” he finally says.
“You must be boiling hot in here,” King presses, as if he’s not literally on fire.
“I’m used to it.”
“There’s no need to keep up appearances, either.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
“No one else comes in here, if you’re worried about that.”
“Do you want me to take off the scarf?” Katakuri asks. He doesn’t really understand King’s intentions here, either. It is a little unfair, he thinks, that King hid his face for so many years only to reveal such exquisite beauty. Katakuri isn’t quite so blessed.
“Just giving you the option,” King says, though he sounds contrite. He finishes working the soil around the last plant. “You weren’t subtle at dinner last night.”
Katakuri feels his face burn hot immediately.
“But neither was I,” King continues, and it takes Katakuri a moment to calm his thrashing heart and understand what he means. As King wipes dirt from his hands, Katakuri thinks of how King had licked his fingers clean, methodically and thoroughly. On purpose .
Katakuri doesn’t remove the scarf, but he does loosen it, letting it fall below his chin. He can feel King’s gaze wander over his face, but Katakuri doesn’t meet his eyes. If King is really interested in him, he supposes it’s fair to see the extent of what he’s getting into. Katakuri won’t fault him if he decides he’s made a mistake.
King stands and reaches up to pull something down from the shelf above the potting bench. It’s a food tray, and Katakuri realizes he must have eaten his breakfast in here. King refills his mug from a cast iron tea pot, and steam rises from the top. It’s not tea, though. It smells like –
“Would you like a taste?”
It’s hot cocoa. It goes without saying that it’s made from the trees Perona has been growing on Kuraigana. Even separated by years and hundreds of miles, it’s a specific type of chocolate that immediately makes him think of home.
Katakuri nods, watching King take a mouthful. He expects King to hand him the mug when he finishes.
Instead King sets the mug down, and Katakuri freezes, too shocked by what he sees five seconds into the future to really react properly. King leans forward and tugs Katakuri’s scarf down further at the same time, firmly pressing his lips to Katakuri’s. He doesn’t react, and King pulls back just enough to speak: “You’re going to have to open up.”
When King kisses him again, Katakuri obeys, eyes closing. The tension fades, and his lips part for King’s tongue. His mouth full of razor sharp teeth doesn’t seem to intimidate or deter King in the least, and when Katakuri hesitantly pushes back, tongues touching, he gets a taste of the chocolate.
It’s rich and bold, but spiced with something a little hotter than he’d normally prefer. Coming from King, it tastes divine. By the time they part, the taste of it has long since faded. Katakuri still licks his lips.
“Well?” King asks. His eyes are bright, a flush high on his cheeks.
Not bad, Katakuri thinks. About the flavor, and his first kiss. King doesn’t need to know about that second bit, though. He doesn’t answer, instead reaching past King to pick up the mug. He downs the rest of it, getting the full flavor of the spices that had settled to the bottom. It’s cayenne, he thinks. It burns on the way down, but he doesn’t care, using his free hand to pull King in for another kiss by the back of his head.
King doesn’t resist, this time opening his mouth for Katakuri’s tongue and the lingering flavor of spiced hot cocoa. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss. The temperature in the greenhouse is starting to get uncomfortably high. King has his hands on Katakuri’s hips, leaning into him and pushing their combined weight against the potting bench. Katakuri feels something brush against his arm, and he reaches out to touch it without thinking.
It’s King’s intact wing, and as soon as his fingers card through the feathers, King abruptly pulls back, startled. His wing retracts out of Katakuri’s reach, and they both go very still. It’s a tense pause, and it feels as though whatever had been building between has evaporated just as quickly.
“Sorry,” Katakuri says automatically. King’s face is flush, lips parted, and he looks a little shocked even by his own reaction. He quickly tries to school his expression, but Katakuri understands he’s touched something he shouldn’t have, even by accident. Katakuri has spent his life avoiding intimate contact. It doesn’t stretch the imagination to think King has been equally lonely.
“It’s fine,” King says, but it isn’t. Katakuri hates that he’s already ruined this, feeling suddenly cold when King steps away from him entirely. King tries to relax his shoulders, but he still looks ruffled. He turns back to Katakuri and says: “I want to show you something.”
King walks deeper into the greenhouse, and Katakuri follows. There’s hanging plants to dodge, and plants whose leaves reach to the ceiling they have to maneuver around. The space narrows at the back, so they stand shoulder to shoulder. King doesn’t move away from the contact.
Shaded by something with fronds nearly as tall as him are three saplings, arranged in a neat little row. It takes him a moment to recognize what he’s looking at. “Are those…”
“We took cuttings about two years ago,” King says. “So they won’t be mature for a few years yet.”
“Does she know about these?”
King snorts. “Of course Perona knows. The trees she has now produce more cocoa than even she could consume in her lifetime, but this was an experiment. They’ve done well.” He pauses a moment to take a breath, and then says: “They’re yours.”
Katakuri stares at him. “Alright,” he says. “Name your price.”
King frowns, looking uncomfortable. “They’re – there’s no price. They’re yours. Even if Hawkeyes bought the originals, they still belong to your family.”
Katakuri doesn’t think of it that way, personally, though he has siblings with that sense of entitlement. He does his best to reign in their worst instincts, learned or inherited from Mama.
“Look,” King continues, “I know she gave you a hard time. Crocodile probably thought it was funny. When I first came here, Perona was a pain in the ass, and she still is, but –”
He stops, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and Katakuri doesn’t think it’s from the heat in the greenhouse.
“Everything in this greenhouse is mine to do with as I please,” he finally continues. “So take the damn trees.”
“Alright,” Katakuri concedes. “Thank you, King.”
King’s posture relaxes, and his expression goes a few rounds of emotions Katakuri can’t identify. He thinks maybe King wants to correct him, then remembers Hawkeyes had called him Alber. It’s a name he won’t use unless it’s been given by the man himself. King says nothing, though, and his gaze darts between Katakuri’s eyes and mouth, and Katakuri thinks he wants to kiss him again. He’s not opposed, but a glimpse of his future sight reveals King storming off in anger, so he braces himself for that instead.
King frowns, picking up on Katakuri’s tense posture, and then his attention is pulled to something over his shoulder. He looks surprised, and then rage twists his expression.
“Get out! ” King bellows, and Katakuri turns to see they’re not quite alone. Hovering over their heads is some ghastly, spectral sort of creature with a vapid smile on its face. “I’ve told you a thousand times to stay out of here! ”
King grabs the nearest potted plant and launches it at the ghost. The spectre is unharmed, but the pot explodes in a shower of dirt and terra cotta. The ghost titters and loops around overhead, and then phases through the roof of the greenhouse.
“Perona! ” King shouts, storming off towards the interior of the castle, exactly as Katakuri had seen.
Don’t mind the ghosts, Mihawk had said. King seems to mind them very, very much. Fire scorches the top of the greenhouse, evaporating condensation and frying leaves.
Katakuri takes note to remember that Hawkeyes does not, apparently, joke about ghosts.
***
“Our borders are open,” Katakuri says, standing at the docks with King as his crew prepares to disembark for the New World. King has calmed down after a brief shouting match with Perona, in which Moria got involved, and then Roronoa Zoro showed up, and everyone had suddenly been on their best behavior. Katakuri still doesn’t quite understand the power dynamics happening on this island, and he’s willing to bet none of the inhabitants do, either. “If you ever wanted to visit.”
King thinks about this for a moment. “Does the silverware still sing?”
Katakuri snorts, then laughs. He shakes his head. “That’s not really a thing anymore.”
Without Mama’s Devil Fruit to keep them going, the homies had slowly reverted to their original inanimate state until none remained. That had made a number of operations much more difficult, but they’d managed, and Katakuri can’t say he misses them. Not entirely.
“Then I’ll consider it,” King says. “Sorry about Perona’s ghost spying on us.”
“It’s alright,” Katakuri says, which is honest enough. He grew up with dozens of siblings, and corralled dozens more after that. Privacy is a hard won luxury, and anyway, he’s not ashamed of anything they did or what she might have seen. “Thank you, again. I mean it.”
The saplings are being very carefully loaded into the dinghy right now, the last of their precious cargo for the voyage ahead. Katakuri might not sleep until he sees them safely transported and transplanted. They’re not much, just three simple trees. It still feels like bringing a piece of home back where it belongs.
King shrugs off the thanks. “Well,” he says. “Safe travels.”
Sometimes a goodbye can be a very strange beast, full of expectations and disappointments and hopes all at once. This one certainly feels a little tense, or maybe just awkward, like there’s more they want to say but they know they’re not alone. Katakuri’s scarf is wrapped up to his nose again, so there won’t be any kissing, although he did enjoy that. They’re caught in the in-between, their footing just as unsure as their future, together or separate.
The distant future isn’t so terrifying anymore, at least. The near future looks better every day. The present moment is the best, when King shakes his hand, lets his fingers trail over the inside of Katakuri’s wrist as they part, slower than necessary. It’s practically the definition of chaste, but King imparts a kind of smoldering heat in his touch that will have Katakuri thinking of it the whole way home.
Kuraigana is not a large island, and it fades into the horizon faster than Katakuri wants, for once cursing the wind and the full sails. There’s no sense pining, though, and once he’s personally seen to the safe storage of the saplings, he knows the first thing he’s going to do is call Brulee. She’ll want to hear from him either way, but he’s looking forward to telling her about the particular and unique beauty of Kuraigana, and how she might like it there.
There might be one particular and unique beauty he has in mind, who he once knew as King, and hopes to know someday as Alber. He can’t quite see that far ahead, but the little steps that will take them there look bright indeed.