Work Text:
𝄞 “—personas que se están enriqueciendo. Gente que vive en la pobreza, Nadie hace nada porque a nadie le interesas—”
A blur of red falls across the threshold, door splintering further from the weight of his shoulder pushing it back into place—as much to brace himself as close it. His weight drops forward, stumbling over his own feet as boots bounce across the floor, landing in a pile of shoes strewn in front of a half-empty shoe-rack. Music mixes with the ever-present hum of neon and monotone droning from the damaged television in the corner literally stuck on a local news channel, swallowing the sounds of his entrance. White noise to a sleeping Killer.
His hand reaches out finding purchase on the couch using it to guide his path. Vision hazy, he crashed on the couch, punctuated by a sharp gasp. Killer torn from his sleep by a crushing weight on his chest, air ripped from his lungs. An experience he’s admittedly used to. With a shallow grunt, he attempts to shove him off, air returning to his lungs in a heavy breath for a brief moment. A thick thud cuts through the music as their bodies make contact with the worn wooden planks below.
Kid simply mumbles, words slurring into an intelligible mess of sounds as his arms wrap around Killer like a human body pillow. Killer smiles, a half-cocked sleepy grin that is him accepting his fate for the night.
Dust illuminates the streaks of sun filtering through half-boarded windows, illuminating the sleek kitchen standing in contrast to the rest of the interior. Kid is greeted by the spacey, dizzy feeling of dehydration, and the thirst that accompanies it. Pulling himself off the floor in a groggy haze, stumbling over to the kitchen. He cracks open an energy drink—the number one choice for all your re-hydration needs—and chugs it down in a few gulps. Crushing the can and tossing it into the pile that’s overgrown from the can as he calls out to killer, “It’s real.”
Killer emerges from the bathroom, towel draped around his waist, ruffling his still-dripping hair with another,“Context is nice.”
Cold metal drags down his face, “Those government dogs don’t do anything, little decorations protecting their precious 1%!”. Lips curl in disgust, “They’ll care when we’re all dead and nobody is here to purchase their way into gilded halls with padded walls and invisible hands…” he trails off for a moment, trying to reel himself in again, chin turned up toward the television. “I saw it.”
Shirt half on, Killer paused. Frozen in the moment as he processed those words—their implications. He shook his head, willing himself to finish pulling on his shirt, before slowly emerging out of the room. Air thick as he made his way to the stool across the counter, “saw what?”
“Someone who had gotten their hands on that new drug everybody’s been talkin’ about. I saw it—no I heard it. The way they smiled while tears streamed down their face…” he shuddered. “Said they had gotten it as a gift for makin’ a weapons deal.” his teeth audible ground together, a sharp squeak punctuating the sound of his clenched jaw. “I could give a shit about other’s business, but selling weapons in my territory? Weapons?” spit met the metal sink with a ring, “That’s personal.”
It’s the particular way those red lips twitch. The slight mirroring of the motion in his right eye. The way his fists ball into a fist against his thigh before being consciously flattened against the counter. Others might dismiss the mannerisms as simply angering trying not to boil over, but Killer knew better—the subtleties to familiar to him by now. An internal battle raging inside, bubbling, breaking, clawing, ripping at his own standards to try to grasp at something he hates for the sake of getting what he wants. “What’s the plan?”
For a moment, his frustration is masked with a sharp grin. “He’s clearly got a death wish, so let’s give him what he wants.” The scowl returns deeper than before, words forced through tightly clenched teeth, “we need...more.”
If there was ever a moment Killer wished he wore his masks when they were alone, it was now. Sheer will the only driving force preventing his jaw from dropping in realization. “an...alliance?”
The scoff offered in response is the only one he needs.
“You’re serious.”
Silence. Sometimes, a morning beer is perfectly appropriate. Necessary even. Sometimes, being a little drunk makes things a little bit easier to say.
Killer holds out his hand, and a small glass is slid across the counter at him. He accepts the glass bottle being held out, and pours the clear liquid slowly, before shooting it back. Thing is, alliances between groups are typically made with surrounding territories...difficult and rare as it is. He pours himself another. Thing is Kid already has a history with at least one of them. This isn’t going to be pleasant. The crystal liquid warms his throat, savoring the sting before he speaks, “You don’t actually have to like them. Just...temporarily utilize the resources they provide.”
“I know. Fuck! I know, but fuck is he annoying. And that other prick, always prancing around with that stupid deck of cards...mumbling to himself.”
“And? You wouldn’t be considering an alliance if you thought it was necessary.”
Kid grunts in response, fingers brush through his hair. He’s right.
After some rather...rough discussions, a date had been set with what were two of the closest territories. A tall man with a large frame, teeth somehow too large from his big mouth, and a smile that made you want to knock them out—“Scratchmen”. The other, a blonde always dressed in a frilly white shirt that looked like he stole it from a high school theater department with a face permanently marked with ink he wished he could punch off—“the Magician”.
“Play nice,” Killer reminded under his breath.
The grunt he received as response was all but convincing. Not that the other two men helped any, the open door giving way to a disheveled room, one gentleman paranoid and rummaging through the room looking for hidden mics—the other idly reading a tarot spread over the table. It’s been about a whole two seconds, Killer steps between them, arms half raising in a pseudo barrier between the three. “Oi, we’re here to talk business right? Let’s not make it personal.”
Some reasoning and reminders makes them to begrudgingly back down before they discuss further plans on their alliance and what that entails. They trade information, and discuss utilizing their specializations and resources to the goal. The word on the street? New Weapons. New Drugs. Less Territories.
One of the bigger territories is still trying to expand. Not only is the group well established but they have reach and connections spread across the black market. They’ll absorb any group that is smart enough to comply, and completely overthrow anybody who tries to act otherwise.
People are getting a hold of a new drug. Supposedly it’s a leaked drug from the government. Some shit they were testing on soldiers in an attempt to get them stronger—not an entirely unusual experiment knowing the military’s....correspondence. Though, it’s notable to know that most people actually find this somehow more comforting than the alternative: some unregulated entity using citizens as their own personal lab rats for god knows what. Problem is that most of the stuff confirmed getting into people’s hands all have the same effect: their expression range dwindling to that only of a haunted smile and persistent laugh.
Killer lowers his arms as Kid flings himself into a seat at the head of the table, “I’ve seen it.” Scratchmen stops yapping, the sound of shuffling cards stops promptly in tandem, a silence infecting the air. He continues, “Whatever it is—saw a runner take it. Whoever he was sellin’ to didn’t want to buy without a little demonstration. Smart. When he started laughing inexplicably they went on the defense and started beating him—and he just...kept laughing. Even when they were done with him. Still laughing. Don’t know who’s guy it was, but even if he survived they’re not gettin’ him back.” Two heavy boots fall on the table, one crossed over the other, his arms following suit behind his head as he let out a heavy breath.
Another round of cards is pulled, pressed carefully in the shape of a cross in front of him as the blonde speaks, “I’ve more reason to believe that he forces his better men to take it than a hunch. Apparently there’s a bunch of failed batches. Most of the product going around in fact. Nobody quite knows exactly what it’s supposed to do, but whatever rumors people are hearing out there think it’s worth the risk of whatever...that is,” a slight pause punctuates his next words. “So...what better way to test your product than free fodder?”
Scratchmen speaks up, a verbal answer to the rhetorical question hanging heavy in the air. “Fodder that pays you.”
This giant was growing. The weapons...the numbers? If any boss in the Grand Line had any hopes of stealing the crown for themselves they’d have to find a way to take him down. With all their specialties, the chances of which were much higher together. Regrettably.
They agreed, begrudgingly. A shaky alliance formed from the pressure of the Beasts.
With the alliance formalized they go their separate ways, collecting information and biding time until things are right to make a move. Much to his dismay, this largely means that Eustass and Scratchmen are poised to work closer—working off their specializations in weaponry in a combined effort to facilitate their effort with the means to fight against imbalanced numbers—even with the groups combined.
Time stretches. It’s tentative, careful. Kid continues with his reckless antics, never sitting backstage. If he’s not in his workshop tinkering, he’s on the front lines with his men. Negotiating, selling, securing, intimidating, observing, waiting.
Months. Six. Fucking. Months. If he ever got even a step close to those fucking rats he was going to kill them. Pull them fucking limb from limb. Shred every last fiber of their being into nothingness. Not a single soul on earth would remember their name. Their being. Their existence.
Everything had been ripped from him. So suddenly, horribly. Every piece of rage within him ignited—burned to ash all at once. The taste of ash the only thing that flavored his mouth. The taste of guilt…the taste of regret. Yet he ate. Consumed. Worked. Fought to work off the debt that had been saddled superficially upon his shoulders. To escape. Only to see the face he toiled for presented to him twisted...conformed. Disfigured.
His friend. His partner. His. He wants to question it. How desperately he wants to look away. To convince himself the man, dragged through the streets by his collar is someone else. A stranger…but he knows that face. Even through the serrated smile. Every ounce of energy, every moment spent desperately thinking of a ploy to get out of this place….for what? An instant is all it took to rip every ounce of momentum he had stored within himself. Gone. Splintered with a haunting smile. In an instant. The rage pulled from him like a tablecloth perfectly ripped from a table—every facet still so perfectly in place but somehow...gone. An unfamiliar pit forming in his stomach like a knot.
How could he let this happen? The stabbing in his chest was suffocating. A torment akin to the death of a loved one—a title only bestowed upon his crew. Yet somehow this still felt worse. And he...let this happen? All this time...avoiding the entanglement of messy alliances, often to his own detriment, just to give in with thoughts of their victory only to be gutted. If you told him his intestines were being ripped from his core at this moment? He’d believe you.
The tension in his body was like a knife in the skin. Piercing. Crawling. Tightening his skin in a way that made him want to crawl out of it. How could he have let this happen? The disgust made his lip curl in a painful snarl. The rage building into an incomprehensible rage. And he was so used to being angry.
The limited responses from his partner only seemed to fuel his anger. The apathetic mannerisms punctuated by a serrated smile and prickling laugh injecting a fire in his veins unlike anything he’s ever known.
Following this, everything was a blur. A mess. What needed to be done, his goals, finding the rest of his subordinates...all filtered away into a part of his mind he seemingly could no longer access.
They could do anything they wanted…to him. Every edge. Every threat. Everything intentionally instigated that would coax out his rage—to entertain the beasts. And he let them desperate attempt—no a cloying hope that it would alleviate any strain on his partner, wherever they had him. The only thing that seemed to calm his nerves and prove his worth. To go on.
So what more was he to do? He waited. And god was it so unlike him. The simmering rage an unfamiliar beast in his belly, not used to caging it. Letting it summer, keeping it from being unleashed a new experience. Strange for someone who’s every move was motivated by a simmering anger constant within his being.
It was his fault.
That’s right. Who’s fault would it be but his own? The one who had so adamantly denied every alliance that crossed their paths from the very beginning? The one who swore they could trust no one but their own? That’s right. It’s his. It’s his fault. What kind of captain was he to deny the truth? The inevitable reality that he was responsible. He looked down at his hands, trembling; he might as well have held the knife himself.
And for what? For the simple want of taking down the giant that was breathing down their necks—something he so thought could be fallen if he buried his pride for an alliance—proven him wrong with such ease. And how could he forgive himself for that? Especially when the one stood so near him proclaimed him having done nothing wrong? It only made him feel worse.
The thought pounded around his head like a nauseating drum. A beat that would never cease. And how could someone so easily move past such a feeling? Something that purged itself from his gut involuntarily—words that spilled from him like a sickness. Promises dripping from his mouth like a prayer. Rage twisting in on itself in a way so unfamiliar.
The only way to dig himself out of this whole was surely, to accept it. To acknowledge the only way to pay for his sin, to free himself from this prison, was to shackle himself in this moment of guilt.
Somewhere along that way, as if pulled from thin air, the two figures. One brought with him a light he never wanted, bright and joyful like the sun. The other a darkness, an outward apathy like the cold weight of sadness. And they inserted themselves. What an experience was it to have his worst nightmares thrust upon him so desperately? How insistently he refused to work with anybody again for fear his pain would be doubled. Yet they persisted. Walked alongside him, on their own paths, toward the giant.
The thrill brought out his normal self. The sadistic satisfaction of hurting the ones he dared to trust a delicious distraction from his thoughts. Fighting the one he aimed his sights at from the beginning—Kaido, and his ally and fellow Emperor Big Mom—proved a temporary balm to his soul, a focus for his rage.
And then it was over.
In these cities, so ravaged by the beasts, they celebrated the loss. Residents coming together to put on a celebration that spilled into the streets.
A bloodbath that left so many dead, the giants before him now lying on the floor with the rest. Still he felt hollow. The pit in his stomach was just as nagging as the moment he saw Killer’s face. The mask he usually sported now back in it’s place doing so little to assuage the sensation. And he noticed. It was hard to miss the way Kid’s face seemed to move in tandem with his, in opposition. Every time his face turned, so too did Kid’s—away from him. An unfamiliar expression, almost imperceptible, layered underneath his normal demeanor.
His fists clenched and relax, mirroring his jaw. A motion spurred by the antsy feeling that rattled his bones. Not even the high of being reunited with is crew, his family could bandage this wound. He needed something. He needed distraction.
When all the music died away, every body returned to their homes in the cold hours of morning, he decided. The only thing that could sate this hunger, born out of a beast, was to fell another. An act that would not only focus his mind, but secure his place among the Emperors.
Returning to their private apartment felt strange...somehow it felt quite despite the incessant rambling on the news. The quiet never bothered him before, but now? Now, it was so hard to ignore—the news of Kaido’s fall had quickly overtaken every other story. And all it did was remind him of his folly.
A snarl contorted his face, not even hearing the words coming from Killer’s lips as he stormed to his workshop, locking himself inside. He poured every ounce of himself into this task, while Killer was left in what now felt like an empty home.
Every concerned knock on his door answered with a turning of the nob—he didn’t hear. Every offer of food left by the door taken in silence and averted eyes. He would have rather denied it but the confrontation that would have incited wasn’t worth it. That would just mean he would have to face him. So isolated himself.
Killer tried. He tried to give him space...he did give him space. But every second was like a drop, slowly but steadily filling a bucket. Eventually, it started to overflow. And when that final drop caused the spill—those eyes so carefully averting from his own—he snapped. Pushing his way into the dim workshop, hands filled with the fabric of Kid’s clothes as he stepped forward. His voice in contrast to his movements, trembling and unsure.
“Look at me! Please—I…” he reached for his mask, laughing hysterically as he slides it off to reveal the scars of his upturned mouth. “Am I so hideous that you can’t even spare a glance in my direction? Have I disappointed you? Kid...please...tell me wh—”
Kid grabbed his face, shoving him against the wall with a force that splintered it, “HIDEOUS? HIDEOUS?? Killer I can’t look at you because it’s my fault—hideous!” his tone softened, thumb tracing delicately over one of the scars that marred his face. “I could never find you hideous…” and with that he stiffened, face composed as he pulled himself away, turning abruptly, only to be stopped by a hand on his wrist.
“Don’t pull away from me. Please…”
“Kil, don’t.” His response was uncharacteristically soft as he let Killer turn him back around, pulling him back to him. “I can’t.”
“Why not? Why are you running away from me?”
Kid’s head ticked to the side, the question striking him. He knew what he meant, but the undertone felt different. Desperate. Hurt. “I’m not.”
“Don’t you love me?”
It felt like his heart broke from his chest, a constant flutter as he stood there stunned. ‘Love’ was not a word uttered so freely in the halls he called home. To hear it from him, so directly, with such sadness behind it stopped him in his tracks. His words slipped from him without a single thought, “More than you know…”
Killer’s brows furrowed in confusion, “More than I know? Of course I know—”
“You don’t understand—seeing you like that...I..” he shook his head, willing the words away.
“Kid. I love you. This…” he gestured to his face with his free hand, “this was to keep you safe. And I’d do it again. I know we don’t really acknowledge it but,” his hand laced into Kid’s pulling him close, slowly but insistently. “I need to know that I’m still yours.”
Eyes widened, breath catching in his lungs, he let himself be pulled against Killer. It felt like home, and the words struck a realization within him. How could he have been so blind? If he wasn’t his who’s was he? A million thoughts bouncing in his head like game, trying to figure out the right words. Trying to explain—to acknowledge—to...his hands disentangling themselves from Killers, moving to cup his jaw, thumbs splayed lovingly over his new scars as he leaned in. A soft whisper on his breath, “Of course.”
His lips crashed against Killer’s with a desperation he never knew existed within him. A touch he had craved for far too long, something so close but never taken. It felt like the knot was gone, a weight was lifted from his chest, no, his very soul and he melted into it, basking in the feeling.
He pulled away long enough to look into his eyes, a confirming “you’re mine.”